


The Pursuit of Happiness

by iqom



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Mettaton's career on the Surface has failed, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Strangers to Lovers, papyton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16393067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iqom/pseuds/iqom
Summary: ~REUPLOADED~Despite being from different walks of life, with different struggles, both Mettaton and Papyrus are seeking one thing: happiness.Perhaps they can help each other.





	1. Cacoethes

**Author's Note:**

> The bare bones for this fic come from a documentary called "Pete Burns: Unspun", where the Dead or Alive frontman finds himself in prison and is bailed out by a fan, who then invites him to come stay at his house. I hope you enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cacoethes": An irresistible urge to do something inadvisable.

Mettaton had yet to grow accustomed to the fact that one could actually get into real trouble for attacking nightclub bouncers.

In the Underground, being enraged, famous, or both were perfectly viable excuses to threaten someone’s life. It seemed that Mettaton never quite got over his culture shock, and humans used to find his little eccentricities charming. Now, he supposed, they preferred to see him thrown in handcuffs and read nasty two-dollar tabloid libel about how he and his once-propitious career were coming apart at the seams...

Looking back on that fateful night, though, Mettaton wouldn’t have changed a thing about his conduct; perhaps only that he didn’t relieve the offending bastard’s head from his shoulders. One doesn’t just refuse Mettaton, _the_ Mettaton, who was lauded in early 20XX for “bringing back glamrock” and “showing promise to be the greatest multi-talented entertainer of our time,” entry into one of the hottest nightclubs of Los Angeles. The idiot even had the gall to ask Mettaton for his ID, as if his face wasn’t ID enough.

It wasn’t even that which sent Mettaton flying into apoplectic rage. Despite nursing a bruised ego from not being recognized immediately, Mettaton gave the bouncer ample chance to find out just exactly who he was denying entry to. He had begun explaining things with extreme patience; more patience than the young man deserved, really, but after singing a few lines from his iconic single “One Hit Kill” (“that, by the fucking way, darling, _topped_ the dance charts in 20XX”), a glimmer of recognition passed over the man’s face and he said:

“Oh, yeah! I remember that song… “One Hit Wonder”, was it?”

And thus, the claws came out.

~~

Mettaton faced the insurmountable ruckus his arrest caused with his signature smile and an air of nonchalance. While his manager worked tirelessly to clean up the mess, Mettaton relaxed, treating the whole incident like it were some sort of joke, until the sobering news arrived…

Mettaton didn’t have enough money to his name to place bail.

It was a heartstopping, unbelievable predicament… and yet, not so unbelievable after all. Despite a slow yet undeniable decline in album sales, Mettaton’s mindset-- and most pertinently, his extravagant spending habits-- remained steady, to the point where he would buy himself a brand new Louis Vuitton handbag with only a few hundred dollars in his bank account to spare. Without new music, new television programs, new movies, Mettaton’s once-promising career took a hard fall from glory and so did he.

He vehemently ignored all of this.

But Mettaton _could not_ stay in jail, rotting away behind bars until his trial. It simply wasn’t an option. And so, in a moment of desperation, Mettaton’s manager-- none other than the robot’s long-time employee, oh-so-lovingly christened Burgerpants-- began flipping through Mettaton’s old contact list to try and locate the funds…

Finally, to the overworked monster’s delight, a full offer came through from an unlikely source.

~~

“Greetings and salutations! Am I talking to the Official MTT-Brand Management Team?”

“Burgerpants,” said Burgerpants.

“Stupendous! Now, I may as well introduce myself! I am an MTT-Brand Number One Fan by the name of Papyrus; the Great Papyrus, for short, of Oxnard, California!”

Burgerpants put the phone on speaker and reclined in his desk chair, lighting up a cigarette and waiting for the caller to continue. Mettaton used to get calls like this more often; Burgerpants was strictly disallowed from hanging up on fans, even ones of a more rabid disposition. He was to hear them out, assure them that Mettaton loves them too and that they must always aspire to add a little sparkle to their lives, before graciously letting them go. Sometimes, the “letting go” portion took several hours, so Burgerpants at least liked to make himself comfortable.

“Ahem. I was referred to you by an old friend of mine, who has informed me that Mettaton is--god forbid-- in a bit of a bind, a bind of the monetary sort!”

Burgerpants sat up in his chair like a cat tossed into water, scrambling for the phone. _Is this finally--_ “You could say that, yeah.”

“Well! Lucky for everyone involved, I have acquired the funds needed to assist Mettaton in these trying times and would be happy to share them!”

Burgerpants laughed, astonished, clapping a paw to his forehead. _Christ, that was… easy?_ “Wow… okay! Okay, yeah, that’s great! Could I, uh. Get your bank information?”

“Hold the phone, I’m not quite finished! In exchange for my generosity--”

 _Aw, fuck,_ thought Burgerpants.

“--I was hoping… hmm. _Perhaps,_ if Mettaton would be so inclined… would he… like to come to visit me… and be a guest in my home for a negotiable amount of time?”

It took everything in Burgerpants’ power to not hang up the phone right then and there. The only thing stopping him was the image of Mettaton’s angry face, jaw hard as stone, piercing gaze like a high-heel to the jugular-- _Never hang up on a fan. Do you understand?_

“I know it sounds crazy!” Papyrus continued, “But I can assure you, there is no lecherous or nefarious motive behind my asking!” His voice softened. “It is simply… a lifelong dream of mine to meet Mettaton, play host in my humble abode, explain to him in person how much he means to me. Attempt to repay him for the endless amounts of insurmountable joy he and his brand have given me.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Of course, I will put up the money regardless. I only ask if he would consider it.”

Burgerpants heaved a great sigh, a bit unsure that he was actually hearing what he was, well, hearing. In his many arduous years of customer service, he’d gotten his fair share of absolute lunacy when it came to questions and requests; this, however, was truly gunning for first place in that arena.

“Can I, uh, put you on hold?”

“Most certainly!”

Burgerpants set the receiver carefully to the side and crushed his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray beside him before running a quick Google search: “PAPYRUS OXNARD CA”.

To his surprise, countless articles came up in response. A quick glance at a few of them revealed this Papyrus character to be quite the upstanding citizen. An acting monster-human ambassador; the record showed that he worked tirelessly to maintain peace and harmony between human and monsterkind.

The city of Oxnard (a place Burgerpants had never heard of) was located only an hour outside of Los Angeles proper, and looked to be a rather small, homey beach community. Perhaps it would do Mettaton some good to get out of the city, escape the cutthroat paparazzi…

Burgerpants scooped up the phone. “Who referred you to this number, again?”

“Ah! An old friend of mine named Undyne.”

_Undyne? The head of the Underground’s old Royal Guard?! Wow, this guy really has some connections..._

As outrageous as the idea was, Burgerpants had to admit it was growing on him. It was clear that Papyrus was hardly dangerous-- in fact, he was quite the opposite. A true philanthropist. Besides, Mettaton was always quite keen on meeting fans, and he hadn’t had one this devoted to him in a while.

Burgerpants pursed his lips, a rather important thing to clarify suddenly coming to mind. “I gotta ask. He’ll… have his own bedroom, right?”

Papyrus coughed, his embarrassment tangible through the phone line. “Of course, naturally, yes, oh god, I wouldn’t even _think_ of--”

“Okay, got it, alright. Good. He’ll stay with you until he goes to trial. How’s--”

A loud, excited caterwauling into the phone interrupted Burgerpants mid-sentence and he held the receiver away from his head, grimacing as his eardrums rang.

“Oh, wowie, I can’t believe it! My wildest dreams realized! Oh Lord, I’m to meet Mettaton, ah! I’ll have to clean the house from head to toe, top to bottom--”

And just like that, Burgerpants gratefully (albeit somewhat impulsively) agreed to the stipulations and acquired the funds for Mettaton that the robot so desperately needed.


	2. Nadir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nadir": The lowest point in the fortunes of a person.

“I absolutely refuse to entertain the notion that auctioning me off was our only option.”

The drive from Los Angeles to Oxnard was rather scenic, but that was the last thing on Mettaton’s mind. Sprawled across the backseat of Burgerpants’ Corolla, he proceeded to give his poor manager the verbal ass-whooping of the century as the car meandered past vast fields of strawberries and the occasional wooden fruit stand.

Burgerpants (doing his absolute best to stay focused on the road) didn’t go down without a fight; but taking the brunt of Mettaton’s fury-- backed by quick wit, a colorful array of swear words, and a tongue like acid whips-- was difficult, especially while driving.

“It wasn’t like that. Listen, I--”

“He could be a serial killer for all we know.”

“He’s _not,_ really, he’s not. He’s a human-monster ambassador, for god’s sake-- he’s not even a stranger, one of your contacts referred him.”

“Mm, telling me he’s an old friend of _Undyne’s_ is supremely comforting.”

Mettaton raised a water bottle filled with motor oil centimeters to his lips, paused for a moment, and then sat it back in the cupholder; deciding he was not quite finished with his onslaught.

“And anyway-- I’m not done. I don’t care who he is, who he knows, if he’s the next Motherfucking Teresa: I guarantee you will find my empty metal carcass in his bed and my soul trapped in a mason jar.”

“God, you’re melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic? _Me?!_ Never.” Voice dripping with venom, Mettaton whipped out his phone and began poking at the clock app; trying and failing to navigate his way to the timer. “God, you’re useless. You know that? Useless. It’s embarrassing. Don’t talk to me for ten minutes.”

“Um. ‘Kay.”

“What have I done to deserve this? I get bailed out, just to be placed on the market like a prize pig,” Mettaton wailed. “I should have committed murder instead.”

Burgerpants made a nonverbal, feline noise of frustration before shutting up, and the car fell into disgruntled silence. Mettaton gazed petulantly out the window for a few minutes before letting an extendable arm snake down to his oil bottle; regretting his belligerence, he scowled as a prickle of guilt-- like nauseating little fingers-- crept up in his core.

He took a pensive swig from the pink plastic bottle; eyes trained on Burgerpants’ paw as the cat-monster withdrew a cigarette from his pack on the dashboard and brought it to his mouth.

“Darling…” Mettaton swung his legs around and leaned forward over Burgerpants’ shoulder, flipping back the tip of his right index finger to reveal a small flame and touching it to the end of the cigarette. “May I ask a question?”

Burgerpants took a long drag from his cigarette before looking up at Mettaton in the rear view mirror and cocking a furry brow-- _Oh, I can talk now?_

Mettaton rolled his eyes. “Forget what I said about the ten minutes.”

“Yeah, ok, boss. Shoot.”

“Why do you--”

Mettaton cut himself off abruptly, leaned backwards, folded his arms and avoided looking at the back of Burgerpants’ head. Raw, gut-wrenching guilt following his nasty words threatened to swallow him whole-- scorching, oily tears welled up in his eyes but he’d be damned before he cried in front of Burgerpants.

Mettaton’s already ferocious temper had only grown worse over the years. It was virulent and beastly and most egregiously, uncontrollable; Mettaton found himself incapable of rationality in those moments, his anger operating him like a parasite.

It hurt him. It hurt others. It pushed his old friends away, until Burgerpants was the only one left, still bafflingly willing to play this silly game where he tiptoed around Mettaton’s childish, mercurial nature, taking his rage like the most idiotic martyr, and for the life of him Mettaton couldn’t _fucking_ understand why--

Burgerpants’ ear twitched, waiting for him to continue.

Mettaton exhaled heavily from his plastic lungs, waiting for the words to return to him until they finally did, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice:

“Why do you stay?”

Burgerpants heaved a slow sigh, gray smoke curling from behind his upper lip and waltzing lazily out the driver’s side window. Mettaton didn’t need to expand on his question. It was mutually understood.

It had been about a year since Mettaton was able to supply Burgerpants with a paycheck for his managerial work. And yet, the cat-monster never quit the thankless job, working diligently beside Mettaton like he was being paid a hundred an hour--

“You believe in soulmates?” Burgerpants said suddenly, taking Mettaton completely by surprise.

Mettaton blinked. “I--”

“But like, a platonic soulmate, one you can’t fuckin’ stand?”

Mettaton couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Ah. How kind, darling.”

Burgerpants cracked a toothy grin. “No, but really, though. Not working for you would be like chopping my tail off. I don’t even have, like… I mean, I’ve been introducing myself to people as ‘Burgerpants’ for fifteen years now ‘cuz of you.”

Mettaton snickered, his guilt capitulating to mischievousness. “God, the _look_ on your face when I came outside just as your pants fell down--”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“It’s branded in my memory, darl--”

 _“My point is…”_ Burgerpants trailed off for a moment before continuing, “Without you… you and your bad attitude and piss-poor life skills… I don’t think I’d have, like. Direction. Purpose? Dunno.”

Mettaton was silent as Burgerpants took another painfully long pull from his cigarette.

“You’re stuck with me, boss. Sorry ‘bout it. Thick or thin.”

Mettaton focused very hard out the window, afraid his voice might catch if he attempted to speak. As they rumbled past the ‘CITY OF OXNARD’ sign, Mettaton extended an arm to gently pat him on his mottled orange shoulder.

~~

The car finally reached its destination in the late afternoon and Mettaton found himself lost in an entirely new cocktail of emotions as he stepped out onto the sandy, cracked pavement.

The street was dead silent, save for ocean waves crashing in the near distance and the gentle flapping of a tattered flag on a pole in the driveway, so discolored that Mettaton couldn’t tell what it may have once stood for. The small cement drive led to a modest-looking single story beach house; the white wooden porch complete with an array of beach glass and seagull feather mobiles fluttering in the summer wind.

“It’s kinda nice, boss. Rustic,” Burgerpants managed as he heaved Mettaton’s bag from the trunk, but Mettaton barely heard him. The lonely street’s bucolic stagnancy was all too familiar to the robot; it reminded him of what could almost be considered a past life, one filled with mind-numbing boredom and dissatisfaction… hopelessness...

“Wait.” Mettaton held out an arm, blocking Burgerpants from approaching the house. He worked to push snail farms from his mind, carefully hiding his face from Burgerpants behind a sheet of inky black hair.

“Everything all right?”

Mettaton squared his shoulders and marched past Burgerpants up the rickety porch steps. Flipping open the mail slot, he bent down and put his mouth to it, yelling _"yoohoo!"_ rather forcefully inside. From somewhere in the house a yelp of surprise was heard, and Mettaton felt impishly pleased with himself.

“What’s wrong with knocking?” Burgerpants protested as he dragged Mettaton’s case (nearly the size of Burgerpants himself) unceremoniously up the steps.

“Careful with that, darling, it’s a custom Louis.”

The mail slot flipped open again, from the inside this time; Mettaton crouched to look in and was met with two glowing eyelights, pinpricks centered in blackness, along with two bleached bony fingers holding the slot open.

“Hello!” Mettaton said, waving a tentative hand. The slot snapped closed and the door was thrown open before Mettaton even had time to get to his feet.

"Mettaton! My warmest salutations! My name is Papyrus-- or the Great Papyrus, if you’re so inclined-- and although I was expecting your arrival with much exuberance I must admit, you scared the living daylights out of me just now!”

Mettaton stood to his full height, finding that he towered over the skeleton monster before him; something he was not unused to.

“I do have a doorbell-- you’ll find it right here,” Papyrus pointed cheerfully to a plastic button beside the door frame, “I understand completely if you are perhaps hesitant to interact with my household for fear of disturbing the peace and whatnot, but I assure you, as a guest in my home you are more than welcome to use any and all amenities I have to offer, including, but certainly not limited to, the doorbell!”

Mettaton ignored all of this completely, bending slightly at the knees and politely cheek kissing him in greeting. “First and foremost, darling, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. I’m forever grateful.”

Mettaton grinned at him; his signature grin, which showed off his top and bottom teeth. Papyrus stood frozen in place, clearly starstruck, and Mettaton-- ever observant-- took this opportunity to look the skeleton up and down.

He appeared to be in his thirties (younger than Mettaton, but certainly older than Burgerpants), his youthful enthusiasm unable to disguise the slight pitting on his cheekbones and shadowy hollows beneath his eye sockets indicative of age. He was dressed in a starchy blue button-up and khaki shorts, paired with well-worn penny loafers and a Dunkin’ Donuts baseball cap.

“AH!” Papyrus exclaimed suddenly, startling Mettaton and Burgerpants simultaneously, “I can’t believe we’re still standing here on the porch! Allow me to show you inside-- please, forgive my astronomical rudeness!”

The skeleton turned on his heel and shuffled back into the tiny house.

“I guess this is where we part ways,” Burgerpants said matter-of-factly. “Wanna text me later, lemme know how you’re settling in?”

 _“Darling,”_ Mettaton hissed urgently, “You can’t just leave--”

Burgerpants snorted, already turning to head back down the porch steps. “Good luck.”

Mettaton opened his mouth to demand he return at once, but was interrupted by Papyrus’ voice floating back to him from the depths of the house. “Please, do come in!”

“I’m coming, sweetheart, one moment--” Mettaton called patiently, turning back towards Burgerpants only to find him already in the car and starting the engine.

Mettaton heaved a great sigh of defeat, lifted his suitcase and stepped gingerly over the threshold as if he were getting into a scalding hot bath, closing the door quietly behind him.

The entryway opened up to a small, crowded living room lined by high shelves stacked with books, CDs, and what Mettaton immediately recognized to be action figures in his own image. The colossal (and shockingly ugly) pieces of furniture Papyrus had circling the hearth were clearly much too big for the space. It was cramped and dusty; the curtains were pulled shut, darkening the room and making it feel even smaller and more claustrophobic than it already was. Mettaton did his best to keep contempt from showing on his face.

Papyrus stood beside his glass coffee table, bouncing up and down on his toes and looking as awkward and out of place as the clutter surrounding him.

“May I sit down?” Mettaton asked, lowering his suitcase to the floor.

“Certainly!” Papyrus gestured to a mold-colored chenille couch and Mettaton glided past him to place himself in it. He sat forward on the very edge of the seat cushion, folding his hands primly in his lap.

“Might I offer you tea? Coffee? A snack? Dinner? Late lunch? Breakfast, if you--”

“Just sit down, darling,” Mettaton sighed, patting the cushion next to him. Papyrus’ inability to keep still for a single moment was starting to give him a bit of a headache. “Please.”

After much nervous stammering and wringing of his hands, Papyrus conceded, sitting down with extreme care beside Mettaton. “Do you prefer the curtains opened or closed? It is rather dim in h-”

“Crossword?”

Papyrus paused, swallowing audibly. “Pardon?”

Mettaton gestured to the newspaper lying open before them on the coffee table, opened up to the daily crossword and half-completed in thin, all-capitalized penmanship. “You like doing the crossword?”

“Oh, yes!” Papyrus quipped, raising a finger, “I consider myself to be quite the aficionado of words. I take it upon myself to learn one new word from the dictionary a day!”

 _Ah, so_ that’s _why he talks like he’s reading straight out of a dictionary… because he is._ “Do you really?” said Mettaton, feigning interest.

“Quite right! I just open up to a random page and pick a word and definition to memorize!”

“Hmm. That’s fascinating, darling.” Mettaton’s eyes traversed the room; there was so much clutter everywhere, so much to take in. He could feel Papyrus’ gaze on him, boring holes into the side of his metal face.

“You live here alone?” Mettaton remarked after a few moments, as if truly everything about Papyrus didn’t indicate the answer to that question already. His eyes settled on a row of shiny CDs, lined up neatly on a middle shelf. It was unmistakably his discography… _all_ of it. Every single album he had ever made was sitting on that shelf.

“I most certainly do! It would be rather difficult to have a roommate in a one-bedroom house--”

Mettaton’s head snapped toward Papyrus, eyes blazing. _“One bedroom?!”_

Papyrus squeaked in surprise. “You’ll have it all to yourself, of course! I don’t tend to sleep very much, and when I do,” he patted the arm of the couch beside him, “the couch will suit me just fine!”

Mettaton sighed heavily, incredulous, pinching the bridge of his prominent nose. He could feel his frustration rising precipitously. God, this whole damn ordeal was such a _joke!_ It just… wasn’t what he had imagined for himself, what he had _dreamed about_ when--

“Papyrus?” he said cooly, struggling to maintain his composure. “I think I’m low on battery. Would you mind showing me to my room?”

Papyrus leapt to his feet like a hare, clasping his hands together. “Of course! Follow me!”

Mettaton stood, collecting his bag and following the nervous skeleton out of the living room and down a skinny hallway.

“Right here!” Papyrus swung open the last door on the right, standing aside to let Mettaton through. “Everything’s clean and made up for you!”

Mettaton sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed, the truly horrendous orange shade of the blanket only furthering his annoyance. “Thank you, darling.”

“I’ll be in the living room if you need--”

Mettaton pursed his lips. “ _Thank you, Papyrus._ Thank you kindly.”

Papyrus hovered in the doorway for a moment, wringing his hands, before pulling the door shut and leaving Mettaton in peace.

As soon as he was alone, Mettaton flopped over on the bed and buried his face in the nearest pillow. It wasn’t Papyrus giving him this unbearable sick feeling, like a sinkhole yawning open in his soul; no, the skeleton was perfectly polite, albeit painfully awkward--

Mettaton turned onto his back and was met quite jarringly with his own face. He blinked, the realization of what exactly he was looking at coming to him a bit slowly…

A full-color poster of himself, taped to the ceiling above the bed. It was a photoshoot from the Underground, one Mettaton forgot he had even done in the first place; a bird’s eye view of him stretched out on a white piano lid, smirking and holding a fat bunch of green grapes to his exquisite lips…

 _Who even_ is _that?_

All Mettaton could do was laugh. It was a bitter and derisive sound.


	3. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Symbiosis": Interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both.

Mettaton awoke the next morning to an eerily familiar drumline floating under the crack of his door: the ghost of an old era.

He sat up and ran a broad palm over his tousled hair, dark eyes scanning the room for a clock. There was none; it seemed that Papyrus prioritized a rather large, framed photo of a red convertible over a timepiece for his nightstand.

Sunlight was slicing through the slats in the shades, but that didn’t give Mettaton any indication of the time other than, well, daytime. Time to get up and face another day.

Pulling his phone from the nightstand, he confirmed the time-- seven in the morning-- and discovered one unread message from Burgerpants:

_> murdered yet?_

After responding with a middle finger emoji, Mettaton heaved himself off the mattress (ripping his charger out of the wall), dressed himself in a pink t-shirt and shorts from his suitcase, and plodded over to the door.

The knobbly gray carpet hid the sound of his footsteps as he meandered down the hallway towards the source of the sound. The beating of the drums soon accompanied a melody, and then finally Mettaton could make out his own voice:

_“Ah ah, one hit kill! One hit kill!_

_You want to try and crush me but I know you never will_

_Call it entertainment cuz we’ll do it for the thrill_

_Oh yes, darling, it’s a one hit kill!”_

Peeking curiously into the living room, Mettaton found Papyrus wearing only a pair of pink checked boxer briefs, humming along and shaking his pelvis to the beat while he brushed a feather duster over the shelves. The living room curtains were open now, flooding the space with cheery morning light and improving its overall appearance thousandfold.

The music, Mettaton realized, was coming from a wall-mounted television over the clearly disused fireplace; it was a video recording of his 20XX _Humanoid_ tour (a good choice, Mettaton noted; _Humanoid_ was arguably his best live show).

 _He really adores me, doesn’t he?_ The thought wandered casually into Mettaton’s mind as he looked on. Suddenly reminded of his testy behavior the night before, he cringed internally, regret slicing through him like a bullet. Here he was; safely out of police custody for the time being, bailed out by what seemed like the _only_ fan he had left…

He had let his frustration at his own shortcomings get the best of him, and he’d made a goddamned fool of himself. Yet. Again.

 _“One hit kill!"_ Papyrus half-sang along softly, his voice a little squawky and very off-tune. _“One hit kill!"_

 _Just act like that fucker on the TV,_ Mettaton told himself. _You owe him that much._

“Morning, darling!” Mettaton quipped after one last, deep breath, striding into the living room as if he hadn’t just been spying from around the corner. Papyrus shrieked in surprise, leaping into the air, tripping over his own feet and collapsing in a cacophony of rattling bones.

“M-Mettaton! Good morning! I apologize, I didn’t think you’d be up so early!”

Mettaton extended a metallic arm to Papyrus, trying not to chuckle as he helped the skeleton get to his feet. “Jumpy, aren’t we?”

Papyrus moved to dust himself off; upon doing so, he seemed to suddenly realize that he was only in his underwear and flushed a bright orange color, excess magic rising in little flecks from his cheekbones.

“Oh good gracious, I’m hardly presentable--”

“Don’t worry about that, darling.” Mettaton peered around Papyrus at the shelves. “What are you up to?”

“J-Just a little Sunday tidying! Now, however, I will be up to getting dressed. Posthaste.” With that, Papyrus slunk past Mettaton and scuttled to the kitchenette, where he had evidently decided to store his clothes neatly folded on countertops and in cupboards while Mettaton occupied his bedroom. Mettaton watched as Papyrus grabbed what seemed to be completely random articles of clothing-- two shirts, a crop top, a single sock and a pair of jean cutoffs-- and darted to the bathroom like he were fleeing a crime scene.

Mettaton sat down on the couch, his body sinking into the ugly upholstery, watching the tiny version of himself prance across the television screen…

This particular show, his performance at Madison Square Garden in New York City, had been the experience of a lifetime. The venue was filled to capacity-- nearly twenty thousand humans there to see _him!_ Mettaton! -- and never in his life had Mettaton felt so completely and utterly adored.

His body still hadn't been fully finished by the time of that concert, but it didn’t matter much; his burnished chestplate and dramatic blue-black pauldrons only enhanced his look onstage. There was no human performer who could measure up to his eight feet of height, his impossible flexibility-- even the charisma he exuded over the audience was original and exotic. He rocked his hips to the beat, swinging his beautiful head from side to side, throwing up his arms in perfect sync with the occasional burst of pyrotechnics.

The camera zoomed in on his face as he sang, his metal cheeks gleaming in the purple spotlights, and his facial features twisted into a passionate expression as he hit a high note, rousing the audience first to delighted uproar and then absolute madness as he leapt in the air and landed a jump split--

“There! Much more acceptable!”

Now it was Mettaton’s turn to be startled, as he had been so enraptured by his own performance that he hadn’t noticed (a fully-dressed) Papyrus circling around the couch until the skeleton plopped himself down onto it.

“Oh! Did I scare you?”

“No,” Mettaton insisted stubbornly, the loud whirring of his internal fans suggesting otherwise. Papyrus didn’t seem to notice or care; his attention was captured by the television moments after he sat down. Mettaton studied him out of the corner of his eye, the silence stretching between them growing more awkward by the second.

“I like your outfit today, darling,” Mettaton remarked politely.

Papyrus looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he’d put on; jean shorts and a canary yellow crop top. “Oh, thank you kindly! It’s going to be a hot one today, according to the weather forecast!”

“Mm. I’m glad I wore shorts too, then.”

“Indeed! Very forward-thinking.”

The conversation fizzled out like wet kindling, and Mettaton had almost officially given up trying until Papyrus suddenly spoke again.

“I imagine it’s surreal, watching yourself perform?”

Mettaton considered this for a moment, a bit caught off guard by the question. “Not particularly. I got used to it, I suppose, having been on TV so much. It’s been a long while since I’ve done anything performance-wise, though… so watching it now feels more…”

 _Disappointing, when you come back to earth,_ Mettaton's mind suggested grimly.

“...nostalgic. Sort of a testament to my...” _Failure._ “...many successes.”

Papyrus nodded, hanging on to every word. “Well, you have a lot to be proud of! You really are a star!”

Mettaton blinked. He was unexpectedly reminded of a moment he’d shared with Burgerpants, about a year prior; he’d found the old issue of _Rolling Stone_ that he was on the cover of at the bottom of a storage box, and Burgerpants had looked over and commented, “I remember that photoshoot… you really were something!”

That _'were’_ had stuck with Mettaton for days, weeks, latching to him like a tick.

‘Were’. Past tense.

And so, Mettaton couldn’t help the smile-- small, tight-lipped, yet wholly genuine-- that rose on his face at Papyrus’ compliment.

“Thank you, darling.”

They both turned back to the television. The absence of conversation was decidedly less uncomfortable than it had been before.

 _“Thank you, beauties and gentlebeauties!"_ the onscreen Mettaton declared, affixing his microphone back on the stand, _“Please put your hands together for my next single, “Hot Rod”;_ _and I’m not singing about motorcycles, my darlings, oh no!”_

Mettaton raised an eyebrow, amused; he hadn’t remembered this portion of the concert until now. Some of his songs were certainly _out there,_ sailing straight past innuendo into borderline obscenity. He glanced over briefly at Papyrus to gauge his reaction, finding him sitting up very straight on the couch with his hands folded.

 _“Which one of you wants to take me for a ride?”_ Mettaton pulled the microphone stand between his legs, thrusting his pelvis to the sound effect of a revving engine, which of course sent the audience into hysterics.

“AH!” Papyrus declared suddenly beside him, “I’ve forgotten to find my word of the day!”

Mettaton watched him scramble for his heavy dictionary on the coffee table and pull it rather conspicuously towards him to cover his lap. Mettaton turned away and bit down on a knuckle to keep from giggling at the skeleton’s predicament. He was fairly accustomed to flustering people, most notably Burgerpants; but Papyrus was not Burgerpants, so Mettaton decided to pretend he didn’t notice instead of teasing him endlessly about it.

“Nyeh… sym-bi-o-sis. Symbiosis! The interaction of two different orgasms--”

Mettaton snorted. “Two different _what?”_

“ORGANISMS! Living in close physical association! Typically to the advantage of both!”

Papyrus was wringing his hands again, so Mettaton let it go. “Very apt to our current situation, don’t you think? Two, ah--” he skirted ‘organisms’ for Papyrus’ sake, “monsters under the same roof? Surely we’ll get along?”

“Quite right! I desperately hope it will be advantageous to us both! In fact…” Papyrus whipped out a small datebook from what seemed like thin air, licking his pointer phalanx with a tangerine-colored tongue before flipping through the pages, “I have scheduled at least one unique, fun-filled activity per day to ensure our time spent together is highly relaxing and enjoyable!”

“Oh, I--”

“Let me see what I have for today…” Papyrus muttered, running his finger down the page to ‘SUNDAY’. “I…” he looked up at Mettaton sheepishly, “I forgot to think of something for today. BUT! I do have to walk to the grocery store, and if you were interested in coming along, I can provide you with rousing, fast-paced conversation to make up for the lack of scheduled activities-”

“That sounds just fine, darling,” Mettaton interrupted, “I need to get some more motor oil anyway…”

~~

Papyrus’ street was just as empty as it had been the evening before. The day was just beginning to grow warm, chasing away the briny chill of oceanside early mornings.

“How far is the store from here?” Mettaton asked, looking around at the modest houses lining the road on either side.

“Oh, a few miles, give or take!”

Mettaton stopped in his tracks, prompting Papyrus to stop too. “A few _miles?_ Why don’t we just drive?”

“Normally, I would!” Papyrus said, “I don’t have a car at the moment, unfortunately.”

Mettaton frowned, thinking of the photo he’d seen on Papyrus’ bedside table. He'd assumed Papyrus kept his car in the garage. “That red convertible on the nightstand isn’t your car?”

“She was! A real stunner, wasn’t she? I’d dreamed about driving a car like that since I was a babybones!” Papyrus heaved a small sigh as the two resumed walking. “I sold her about a month ago.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I needed the money for…” Papyrus abruptly trailed off. Mettaton glanced over at him after a few moments, waiting for him to continue, and found the skeleton very purposefully avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, Papyrus…” Mettaton’s face softened as the realization dawned on him, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did,” the skeleton said plainly, “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

They walked in silence for a little while. After a minute or two, they came across a large gap in the houses at a cross street, giving Mettaton his first glimpse of the beach that lay just beyond. He hadn’t realized the ocean was _that_ close.

“This town is so quiet,” Mettaton remarked, staring at the sparkling ocean in the distance across the deserted beach as they passed.

“It’s a rather peaceful sort of place! Especially on Sundays. The majority of humans here go to worship their god on Sunday mornings.”

“You’re not bored at all here?” Mettaton couldn’t imagine living in Oxnard; the silence was almost unsettling to him. The town felt like a dead end.

“Sometimes! It’s really a matter of learning to keep oneself entertained.”

A soft breeze picked up, meandering past with a strong scent of cinnamon-y baked goods, ruffling Mettaton’s hair. He sniffed at the air curiously; cinnamon wasn’t the smell he would have expected to be carried on an ocean wind...

“Ohh, Papyrus! Good morning!”

A shrill voice sliced through the quiet neighborhood, coming from a cheery yellow cottage on the right side of the street.

“Why, hello!” Papyrus strode up to the house’s gate to greet an aging rabbit-monster, sporting a shock of purple fur beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Care for a cinnamon roll, honey? I’ve got some inside, I know you like them fresh!”

“No, no, that’s quite all right! I’m just on my way to the store--”

The woman looked past Papyrus, adjusting her circular spectacles. “Who’s that you’ve got with y- _well, I’ll be!"_

Mettaton grinned; his signature grin. Despite being almost, if not completely, forgotten by humans, monsters usually remembered Mettaton from their past in the Underground.

“My little ones used to always have your show on… nice and family-friendly, I remember! Oh, we all thought you were so _handsome_ too, with all of those square edges...”

 _Thank_ god _she doesn’t read the tabloids_ , Mettaton thought to himself as he strode forward and kissed the rabbit-woman’s paw. “Charmed, darling.”

She giggled girlishly and then gasped, turning her attention back to Papyrus.

“ _Papyrus…_ have you finally got yourself a boyfriend?!”

Papyrus’ shoulders stiffened visibly. “A-ah--”

“Oh, how wonderful! To think you were just telling me a few weeks ago that you’d never find someone, tch! I won’t say I told you so...”

The implications of the old woman’s words, paired with Papyrus frantically wringing his hands in response, occurred to Mettaton at once. _Has he… never been…_

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” Mettaton interjected quickly, snatching one the skeleton’s quaking hands. Papyrus’ head jerked up, looking at Mettaton with wide eye sockets.

“Oh, what a fabulous couple!” the woman trilled happily, “You’ve sure found yourself a nice boy, Mister Mettaton, trust and believe!”

“I know I have,” the robot crooned, trailing a fingertip down the side of Papyrus’ face, “He takes such good care of me… don’t you, my love?”

“A-AH… Yes! Most assuredly! My, uh… my sweet, uh… M-MY SWEET!”

The rabbit-woman clasped her paws together, squealing with delight. “Oh, you are too adorable for words! You’ll have to come by soon for lunch, I want to hear _everything!"_

“Y-Yes, alright then… I’ll give you a call!” Papyrus was gripping Mettaton’s hand like his life depended on it. “We’ll, ah… we’d best be on our way!”

“Happy Sunday, dears! Best of luck!”

Mettaton dropped Papyrus' hand the moment they were out of sight. Neither of them said a word; the awkwardness stretching between them was palpable enough to be cut with a butter knife.

Papyrus stopped suddenly, his cheekbones bright orange. Mettaton followed suit, waiting patiently for the skeleton to break the silence.

“T-Thank you,” Papyrus squeaked, eyelights trained on the cracked pavement at his feet.

“Don’t mention it,” said Mettaton. “Symbiosis, right?”

Papyrus looked up at Mettaton and smiled.

“Symbiosis. Indeed.”

Side-by-side, they continued on their way.


	4. Desiderium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Desiderium": An ardent desire or longing. Especially, a feeling of grief for something lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a homophobic slur.

“Papyrus… is this really necessary?”

Mettaton, feeling very much like a misshapen basketball in his chunky orange life jacket, looked about nervously as he stood on one of the many wooden docks, blackened with age and water damage, that stretched out over the glassy water of the harbor. Even with pink Ray-Bans and a gossamer chiffon scarf he had loosely covering his hair to dissemble himself, he was still extremely concerned by the prospect of passersby seeing him in such an appalling vest.

“Safety first!” Papyrus exclaimed cheerfully as he fastened and adjusted his own vest, “I apologize for the rather off-brand color. I looked far and wide for a pink one, but those all run in puzzlingly small sizes!”

“Darling, with all due respect, if I were to fall off a boat a life jacket wouldn’t stop me from short-circuiting.”

Papyrus paused, thinking on this for a moment. “Well,” he concluded, raising a finger, “at least you will remain afloat while doing so!”

Mettaton sighed tersely, eyes scanning the path above the docks once again for any signs of life. Clearly, Papyrus was immovable on the subject of boating safety.

“Alrighty, Mettaton!” the skeleton quipped, “Are you ready to board?”

Papyrus climbed into the boat first, holding out a hand to Mettaton. His weight rocked it backwards in the water, to the point where Mettaton could read the name of the boat on its side...

The _Titanic_ was laughably un- _Titanic_ -like; a small, unimpressive dinghy with a rusted motor. The chipped white planks looked so rickety that Mettaton seriously wondered whether the poor craft would be able to withstand his weight.

“I have to ask,” said Mettaton, moving cautiously towards the boat. “Why is your boat named after the _Titanic?"_

Papyrus looked astonished as he took the robot’s quivering hand, holding him steady as he stepped into the tiny craft. “Have you not seen ‘The _Titanic'_  movie? I saw a few scenes on television years ago and I daresay, it was the best romantic comedy I’ve ever seen!”

 _“Romantic comedy?"_ The boat wobbled dangerously under Mettaton’s weight and he grasped Papyrus’ shoulders in a panic, his internal fans whirring at top speed.

Papyrus and Mettaton lowered themselves carefully into a sitting position without mishap. “Regrettably, I had to leave for work before I could catch the ending!”

“Ah. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but--”

Papyrus yanked a chain and the old engine roared to life, spluttering and gasping, drowning out Mettaton’s words.

“My apologies! What were you saying?” Papyrus asked once the engine had warmed, the noise reducing to a satisfied purr.

“...Never mind.”

Papyrus steered the boat away from the dock, following the lazy current. Mettaton was sitting up straight as a rail, searching the quiet harbor for other boaters. He was fully prepared to throw himself into the water, risking his life, and swim into hiding before allowing himself to be seen looking so utterly ridiculous.

“Thank you for joining me!” Papyrus quipped happily, turning his face up towards the cloudless summer sky. “It’s been a while since I’ve last taken the _Titanic_ for a spin... and what a lovely day for it, too!”

“Oh?” Mettaton said, somewhat distractedly, “With your enthusiasm for boating, I thought you’d be out here often.”

The cheery expression on Papyrus’ face didn’t change, but Mettaton could sense a slight shift in his demeanor, like a wisp of cloud passing over the sun. “It’s not nearly as enjoyable to go alone! I much prefer to have some company.”

The conversation with the elderly rabbit-monster from yesterday crept back into Mettaton’s mind, diverting his focus momentarily from his fear of being seen.

_“To think you were just telling me a few weeks ago that you’d never find someone, tch! I won’t say I told you so…”_

“Papyrus, may I ask a very… invasive question?” Mettaton traced a crescent on the floor of the boat with the heel of his well-worn Louboutin. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want--”

“Oh, look! Some humans are waving to us!” Papyrus raised a friendly hand towards three silhouettes on shore.

“ _Shit--_ ” Mettaton’s head jerked up; he had forgotten about pedestrians. Without missing a beat, he slid clumsily downwards to the floor of the boat on his back, the bulky life jacket swallowing his neck as he went.

Papyrus stared down at him, puzzled. “Is that more comfortable for you?”

The tiny boat wasn’t even close to long enough for Mettaton to stretch out along the bottom, even with bent knees. “Don’t worry about it, darling,” he croaked grouchily, sunglasses askew.

Papyrus blinked. “I do hope you’re enjoying your first day of scheduled recreational activities?”

Mettaton pursed his lips, shooting Papyrus an exasperated look from where he was sprawled awkwardly at the bottom of the boat. “Do you take constructive criticism?”

“Certainly!” Papyrus beamed down at him, Mettaton’s attitude sailing clear over his head.

Mettaton sighed, biting back a snarky comment. The skeleton’s undying cheerfulness was melting Mettaton’s irritation; cantankerous as he was by nature, he found that he simply… _couldn’t_ be nasty to Papyrus.

“I’m having a blast,” he grumbled, adjusting his sunglasses, “Keep it up.”

“Oh, _splendid!”_ Papyrus looked so pleased that Mettaton couldn’t help but smile-- just a little. A begrudging smile.

“Oh!” Papyrus raised his pointer finger. “You had a question for me earlier!”

“Oh. Ah… yeah. I did.” Mettaton took a deep breath, brow furrowing, trying to think of a good way to phrase it. “About... yesterday, with that woman--”

Papyrus’ countenance shifted quite dramatically, going from regarding Mettaton with an amicable expression to being suddenly very focused on steering. Mettaton almost stopped his question there, the skeleton’s clear discomfort concerning to him, but he was a rather blunt sort of robot and his curiosity was eating him alive…

“Darling… have you never been in a relationship?”

Papyrus shut off the engine abruptly. Both monsters avoided each other's gaze.

“I haven’t,” said Papyrus after a few painful seconds, looking out over the water. “The obligations of my job-- particularly, the necessitation to live here, in such a small town-- has made dating… unworkable.”

“What about in the Underground?” Mettaton knew he was being nosy to the point of rudeness, but the prospect that someone could reach their thirties without ever having a partner was baffling to him.

“My school years were difficult.” A stony pause. It was very clear to Mettaton that Papyrus was not willing to elaborate.

The boat rocked gently, cradled by the water, small waves lapping audibly along the sides. A yacht horn blew somberly in the distance; a seagull cried, wheeling overhead—

“Mettaton... have you ever been in love?”

~~

_Mettaton burst into the recording studio, eyes blazing with the telltale excitement of a rising star. “Mister Black!”_

_The man turned, smiling warmly at Mettaton as the young robot pulled up a chair. “Call me Simon, Mettaton, please.”_

_Mettaton bounced eagerly in his seat. “I did exactly what you recommended--”_

_Simon laughed, passing a hand over his salt and pepper hair. “No more of that ‘family-friendly’ bullcrap?”_

_“These new songs--” Mettaton withdrew a CD from his purse, a proud smirk on his face, “I really think you’re going to like them. They’re super sexy…”_

_“How sexy?” The older man’s hand alighted on Mettaton’s thigh. “This sexy?”_

_Mettaton’s eyes widened, lips parting as the hand moved up his leg._

_“More like… this?” Simon was so close to him now; their faces were mere inches apart._

_“Pretty… pretty sexy,” Mettaton breathed as Simon slipped an arm around his skinny waist, pulling him into a heated kiss--_

~~

“...Yes. Yes, darling, I have.” 

Papyrus gulped. “What’s it like?”

_~~_

_“Can we go on a date, baby? Please?”_

_Mettaton wrapped his arms around Simon’s neck, the California King mattress squeaking as he nestled against him. He liked to press himself to Simon’s naked body, the warmth radiating from his lover’s skin a wonderful sensation against his chestplate._

_“You know the answer to that.” Simon didn’t look up from his laptop. “I can’t be seen messing around with a singer I’m producing for. People will talk.”_

_“Let them talk,” Mettaton whined, running a hand over Simon’s chest, marveling for the hundredth time at the softness of his skin._

_“Mettaton. It’s unprofessional.”_

_Mettaton pouted. “Could we get room service, then?”_

_“Sure. Run and grab my card, would you? I wanna put that on credit.”_

_Mettaton brushed his lips across Simon’s face, giggling into the kiss. “Of course, darling. Where is it?”_

_“Parlor. Should be in my wallet on the table.”_

_Mettaton rose from the bed, pulling the starchy white sheet around his naked bottom half, and flounced into the hotel suite’s expansive parlor._

_He spotted Simon’s wallet at once-- brown leather, Louis Vuitton. He picked it up, flipping it open to retrieve the credit card…_

_The smile on Mettaton’s face dropped like it had been weighted to sink. His fingertips closed around the wrinkled cardstock, withdrawing the photo from its plastic sheath._

_The woman’s lips were pressed to Simon’s cheek, in the same place Mettaton’s had been not a minute before. A little girl, no older than six, was propped up on Simon’s hip, her tiny hands clinging to his shoulder._

_It only took a little more digging to find the wedding band, stowed away in a zipper pocket on the back of the wallet._

~~

“It’s... powerful,” Mettaton went with after a few moments of deliberation. “It sweeps you off your feet. Makes you blind.”

_~~_

_“You never told me you were married.”_

_Simon inhaled deeply, stood from the bed. “Mettaton, come here…”_

_“Why did you have to lie?” The brokenhearted android’s voice was barely a whisper._

_“It’s not that simple. Please, just come here, we can talk about this--” Simon approached Mettaton, holding his arms out._

_Mettaton stood rigid, still as a sentry, while Simon embraced him. “I just… Mettaton, I’m not… I’m not like you, okay? No one can know about this.”_

_Mettaton recoiled from him, his glass eyes dull with shocked disappointment. “You’re not like… what?”_

_“You know…” Simon sighed, gesticulating wildly. “I’m not a... a fairy--”_

~~

“It can be painful, though. Heart-wrenching. But there were moments where I felt like the happiest man in the universe.”

Papyrus exhaled heavily, deep in thought. “I’ll admit, the concept of love is something that’s intrigued me since I was young. I just… I don’t think...” The skeleton let out a small cough, shaking his heavy skull in exasperation. “Oh, _bother._ This trip was supposed to be about rest and recreation! Not Papyrus’ personal pity party--” His eyelights expanded in excitement. “Ooh! Alliteration! I learned that word last Thursday.”

Another silence opened up between the two monsters; a pensive silence, its tranquility aided by the endless rocking of the boat and the cold harbor breeze that kissed their cheeks, whispering of salt and seaweed and the tumultuous waves of the ocean it came from as it picked up and died, picked up and died over the placid water.

“How _did_ you decide to start learning words daily?” Mettaton asked suddenly, squirming in an attempt to adjust his decidedly uncomfortable position on the floor of the boat.

“Oh… wow, that’s actually… uncannily related to the subject at hand.” Papyrus clacked his fingerbones together nervously. “I suppose if you really want to know… I’m sure it will be a terrible bore--”

“Tell me,” Mettaton urged, prodding Papyrus’ leg bone with the toe of his shoe.

Papyrus swallowed, a contemplative look on his face. “Well, then. I suppose I’ve always had a bit of a rough time… relating to others? In my youth, I just assumed that kids were mean, and things would change once I graduated from school. But even now, I don’t feel very… mmm. Communicative, I suppose one could say?”

He wrung his hands, twisting and folding them, one over the other. “I figured that perhaps I just wasn’t being clear enough! So I’ve been hoping that expanding my vocabulary would help me express myself more effectively.”

“Has it worked?”

Papyrus’ eyelights dimmed to dejected pinpricks. “Well, I haven’t swept anyone off their feet yet, so evidently...”

“Oh, darling, that’s--”

“There’s also the situational aspect that makes things difficult, of course!” Papyrus gestured around at the near-empty marina. “I moved to Oxnard directly from the Underground to be close to the Embassy, while my brother and my friends went off to explore other parts of the Surface. It’s a frightfully small town, rather conservative by nature, and, well…” he leaned in towards Mettaton as if it were a huge secret, “I am a gay man--”

“I never would have guessed,” Mettaton interjected, eyeing the skeleton’s hot-pink Speedo.

“You’re not the only one! Not many people know until I tell them!”

Mettaton chortled. “Are you serious?”

“Quite! In any case… well, all of those factors only make my pool of options shallower.” He took a deep, bone-rattling breath, his ribs expanding visibly even beneath the hulking foam of his life vest. “So honestly, the prospect of someone finding me worthy of love, _romantic_ love…”

His voice grew quiet, so quiet that Mettaton barely heard him. “I don’t think it’s meant to be.”

Mettaton felt his heart break.

“That’s nonsense. Absolute nonsense. There’s a special someone out there for everyone, darling.”

Papyrus looked at Mettaton, doubt etched on his gaunt features. That was a canned response, both monsters knew it; Mettaton didn’t even believe it himself.

Mettaton huffed, pulling off his sunglasses. “Alright. Between you and me-- not a celeb offering bullshit advice to a fan, between _you_ and _me_ \-- we’ve been friends for three days, and already I can see that you’re sincere, you’re attentive… you’re honest--”

Papyrus brightened considerably. “We’re friends?”

“ _Listen_ , Papyrus. You will meet the love of your life someday. It’ll happen.”

Papyrus shook his head, his disposition matter-of-fact. “It won’t.”

“It _will_ ,” Mettaton insisted, almost savage in his vehemence, “And when it happens, you’re gonna think back to right now like ‘wow, Mettaton was right!’ Because I’m always right, darling, that’s just how it works.”

Papyrus said nothing, his expression unreadable as he stared down at his feet. Mettaton heaved a great sigh and, letting go of his fashion tribulations, sat up in the boat, baring himself to the world in all of his life jacketed glory.

“Hey. Look at me.” Mettaton locked eyes with Papyrus when he raised his skull. “You will find a man who won’t need your fancy dictionary words to understand you. He’ll just love you for what you are.”

A resting seagull, bobbing in the current not four feet from Papyrus’ boat, let out a resounding call as it prepared itself for flight. Stubby legs kicking, glistening wet droplets scattering like diamonds from its oily feathers; its white wing-tips beat the surface of the water until it was gliding, catching the wind, arching smoothly up into the sky.

Mettaton smiled at Papyrus, his onyx eyes kind.

“I promise.”


	5. Divertissement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Divertissement": A minor entertainment or diversion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I've updated this fic. Wow. I was stuck on how I wanted to get from point A to point B for a long while, but I think I have it figured out now.  
> Hope you enjoy!

“Is this fucker on?”

“Yeah, boss, I can see yo-- stop messing with it.”

Mettaton pulled his finger away from his phone screen, perplexed, looking down at it like how one might a magic 8-ball. He’d used the video call function once or twice before, but he still had tremendous difficulty navigating technology; pretty much on a constant.

“How’ve you been, darling?”

“Not terrible.” Burgerpants’ voice was breaking up a little, coming through Mettaton’s phone speakers like the sound of crinkling paper. “A little lonely around the apartment, but I’ll survive.”

“ _Awww._ Do you miss me?” Mettaton crooned teasingly, “That’s adorable.”

Burgerpants’ face twisted into a disparaging scowl. “Actually, on second thought, it’s a fat fucking relief to not get bullied every second of every day.”

“Pining for me, sweetheart?”

“You wish.”

“Thinking of me while you jerk--”

The video feed abruptly lurched upwards, presumably while Burgerpants scrambled to lower the volume on his tablet. “ _Jesus,_ boss, I’m outside?!”

Mettaton snickered; there were few things in this world he enjoyed more than embarrassing Burgerpants in public.

“Where are your little…” Mettaton clumsily mimed headphones with the wild gesticulation of his free hand, “...ear pod things? Those red ones?”

“Traded them for an eighth.”

Mettaton rolled his eyes. “A perfectly nice pair of ear pods, squandered away for drugs. Your thought process continues to baffle me as always, darling.”

Burgerpants snorted. “Ear pods.”

“Oh, shut up. Why are you outside, anyway?”

“I’m on the patio at Starbucks, stealing their internet,” Burgerpants answered matter-of-factly, shifting slightly in his chair. “They haven’t noticed me not buying anything yet.”

Mettaton frowned, puzzled. “Why don’t you just use the internet at home?”

Burgerpants suddenly averted his gaze. “I… wanted a change of scenery, that’s all.”

“A change of scenery,” Mettaton echoed, unconvinced.

“What? Is that a crime?”

“Of course not, darling. I just know you’re lying to me.”

Burgerpants’ expression unnerved Mettaton a great deal, as his grumpy employee’s moods usually oscillated between high-strung and stoned with no in-between. Burgerpants sighed; his long face heavy and his brow furrowed.

“Fine. I cancelled our internet, okay? Just for now.”

Mettaton frowned. “What on earth possessed you to do that?”

“Necessity possessed me, because it’s fuckin’ expensive. And we’re broke.”

Mettaton’s face fell, his skepticism melting away to a glassy, blank stare.

“Uh… boss? Hello?”

Mettaton sat in silence. After a few moments, Burgerpants let out a terse sigh of frustration; he was used to his stubborn boss taking difficult news like this. Attempting a conversation with him while he was like this was about as productive as talking to a brick wall, but Burgerpants carried on anyway, in hopes that Mettaton would at least hear his explanation.   

“It’s just… you know, rent’s been crazy enough as it is, and then trying to get you a decent lawyer--”

Mettaton promptly hung up. This video call was taking much too long.

~~

“Papyrus? Are you home?”

Mettaton followed his own echoing voice down the dimly-lit hallway. His query garnered, to the robot’s mild surprise, no response.

It seemed Papyrus was still at work. He’d started taking early shifts to make time for those ‘scheduled recreational activities’ with Mettaton; which had been, thus far, renting bicycles (Mettaton flat-out refused to try it himself and ended up fast-walking alongside Papyrus as he rode, his long legs enabling him to keep up with ease), flying a kite (which he enjoyed, somewhat), hiking (which he abhorred), and playing Scrabble (an unfair choice of activity, Mettaton concluded after losing repeatedly, due to Papyrus’ vast vocabulary).

Usually, Papyrus made it home before Mettaton even woke up. This particular morning, Mettaton found that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself in Papyrus’ absence. Over the past week of spending nearly every waking hour with him, Mettaton went from being mildly annoyed by the skeleton’s odd combination of tireless cheer and jittery anxiousness to actually... somewhat craving it. Trying to keep up with Papyrus as he leapt from one thought to the next at breakneck speed, pacing or bouncing on his toe bones or using words that the majority of people have never heard of, proved to be a fantastic distraction for Mettaton. A diversion.

A diversion from the uncomfortable and frightening thoughts that constantly threatened the edges of his consciousness like hungry parasites looking for a breach in defense. He’d kept them walled out before with an array of tried-and-true, self taught distress tolerance tactics-- aggressive avoidance, reliving fond memories, bursts of explosive anger-- but now he had Papyrus’ many eccentricities to keep him occupied; and all was right with the world. 

Mettaton plodded into the living room, his eyes flicking around as he searched-- a little desperately, but just a little-- for something to take his mind off of things. The house was eerily quiet without Papyrus around. Usually, there was some sort of music playing, or at least idle whistling as Papyrus did his crossword puzzles, found his word of the day, or did needless tidying while he waited for Mettaton to wake up. The living room was dark, too; that component was easily fixable, so Mettaton strode over to the bay window and threw open the heavy curtains, wincing as the harsh morning sunlight forced his pixellated pupils to constrict.

Once his eyes adjusted, Mettaton turned his attention to the bookcases. He hadn’t had a chance yet to peruse Papyrus’ CDs, books, and knicknacks before; he figured there had to be something in this vast collection that could help him pass the time.

Mettaton pulled a paperback down from the nearest shelf at random. The book was heavily dog-eared, and opening to these folded pages revealed that Papyrus had bracketed several passages with a pencil, presumably to return to later.

Mettaton flipped the book over to look at the cover and read the title aloud to himself: “ _My Santa Monica Stallion."_ Just by the title, he would have assumed the book to be some sort of high-brow classic about horse-racing in Southern California, knowing Papyrus’ penchant for long and complicated words; however, Mettaton noted with a quirk of his brow, the half-naked male model on the cover suggested to him another genre of literature entirely.

Especially intrigued now, Mettaton opened to one of Papyrus’ highlighted sections in the novel:

_My cock throbbed in Justin’s tight ass as he arched his back for me, muscles rippling as he moaned my name. I grasped the nape of his meaty neck to steady myself for my first thrust--_

Well, that was certainly enough to confirm Mettaton’s suspicions. He couldn’t help but giggle at the notion of such an uptight and mannerly skeleton indulging in bottom-shelf erotica; still, he tucked the book back on the shelf instead of reading on, ensuring that it looked exactly how it had been before so Papyrus wouldn’t notice its displacement. If it were anyone else, Mettaton would have been more than happy to embarrass them with the find. Papyrus was different somehow, though, and the idea of humiliating him didn’t give Mettaton the wicked delight he usually derived from, say, reminding Burgerpants about that one time he’d had a girl over while Mettaton happened to be in the next room and she’d stormed from the apartment drunkenly griping about how he couldn’t get it up.

Mettaton left the books alone and redirected his attention to Papyrus’ CDs; an astonishingly vast collection that used the majority of his shelf space. It turned out, Mettaton noticed upon closer inspection, that Papyrus had many, many more albums than just Mettaton’s own work. While Mettaton’s discography took up most of the middle shelf, there was quite the impressive collection of human music flanking either side. Mettaton tilted his head, acquainting himself with the labels on each CD's plastic spine, smiling as he noted how similar Papyrus’ taste in music was to his own.

Queen, Wham!, David Bowie, Prince, Donna Summer... save the occasional Britney Spears or Shania Twain album, Papyrus’ collection seemed to be mostly eighties disco hits.

Mettaton slid a very familiar CD off of the shelf. He’d had this same album on vinyl a long time ago, played it on a loop for Napstablook and asserting that he would make music just like that someday. Eighties music was quite formative for the lonely little ghost on the snail farm, particularly the songs off of this very album...

_~~_

_“Dead or Alive,” Mettaton replied into the microphone with as much confidence as he could muster, hoping his nervousness wasn’t too apparent as his voice boomed throughout the concert hall. “‘You Spin Me Round’."_

_Despite his eight feet of height, killer high-heeled boots and impressive pauldrons, Mettaton had never in his life felt so small. The stage dwarfed him, the spotlight drowned him in its splendor, and the collective human gaze-- not just that of the audience before him, but of everyone watching_ X-Factor USA  _on live television-- felt like it was melting his armor away like the wicked witch in_ the Wizard of Oz _. This was the moment he’d anticipated for so many years as a daydreamy ghost, in the various stages of his robotic development, throughout his career as an actor and singer for the Underground; waiting and hoping and praying that one day, he’d be standing just like this in front of an audience of humans._

 _He_ could not _mess this up._

~~

Mettaton closed his eyes and Papyrus’ living room fell away. Oh, how he’d astonished the world with his powerful voice and captivating persona; the humans had cheered for him, screamed for _him_ , the first monster to ever audition for a national, televised talent competition. Minutes later, the first monster to get a golden buzzer for an outstanding performance.

_~~_

_“‘Watch out, here I come’ is right; Mettaton, the world will get to know your name!”_

_The judge slammed the buzzer and the concert hall erupted as Mettaton cried out with elation and fell to his knees, oil streaming freely from his eyes. Golden confetti fluttered down around him, kissing his cheek vents, catching in his hair as the audience screamed their approval._

_Alphys rushed from backstage, throwing herself into Mettaton’s arms with a congratulatory shriek. Clutching his face between her claws, she yelled something to him that he couldn’t hear over the crowd. Mettaton shouted back, ‘thank you, for everything’, and she couldn’t hear him either but words didn’t matter, the sentiment was there, the crowd was there, the farthest reaches of Mettaton’s wildest dreams... were there. In his grasp._

_There was no feeling like this. Nothing even remotely comparable…_

~~

The front door swung open, squealing on its sandy, rusted hinges. Mettaton hurriedly shoved the album back-- as though looking through Papyrus’ CDs was some sort of crime-- and whirled around to give the returning skeleton a huge, toothy grin as he bustled inside.

“Good morning, Mettaton!” Papyrus chirped, kicking the door closed behind him. “How’re you?”

The troubling conversation he’d had with Burgerpants earlier cropped up in his head like an annoying whack-a-mole; he smashed it down, hard. “Can’t complain. And yourself?”

“Oh, fine, fine, unremarkable, a usual standardized typical Papyrus-like sort of temperament.”

Mettaton narrowed his eyes, his gaze following Papyrus as the skeleton made his way to the couch. The empathic robot was quick to notice and interpret quirks in others, and he’d determined after only a few days that Papyrus wringing his hands and making sentences much longer than they needed to be indicated something afoot, no matter how peppy his voice may sound.

“Are you sure?” Mettaton sat down next to him. “You seem nervous.”

“Oh, no, I just-- oh, _bother."_ Papyrus’ cell phone buzzed in his pocket; he took it out and dropped it facedown on the coffee table. “Miss Lapine-- you know, that older woman from down the street? She’s rather persistent. Inviting us over, asking me questions about, _a-ah,_ hmm, I--”

“So, take the call and tell her we’ll come over, then.”

Papyrus stared at Mettaton, presumably searching the robot's face to see if he was joking. The brief moments of stunned silence amplified the phone’s buzzing sound thousandfold.

“B-but she thinks we’re, _you know..._ ” He clacked his fingerbones together. “I don’t want to force you to keep _pretending--_ ”

Mettaton scoffed, snatching the phone off the table. “I’m an actor, honey, it’s what I do-- hello? Oh, _hiiiii_ , darling; no, don’t worry, Papyrus hasn’t been ignoring your calls.”

“ _You don’t have to do this,”_ Papyrus hissed under his breath, his eye sockets wide with unease. _“I don't want you feeling... discomfited--"_

Mettaton disregarded the skeleton's worries with a wave of his hand. Pretending to be Papyrus’ boyfriend again for an hour or two was the least of his concerns.

Frankly, pretending was something he happened to be rather good at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for a little faaaaake dating? XD I'll never grow tired of that trope.  
> Next chapter is also going to be very climactic, though... an angsty, emotionally-charged turning point in the fic. You'll see.


	6. Ausgespielt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ausgespielt": Played out, done for. Washed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, it feels like forever since I've written something not-smutty. Feels good to be returning to this fic after leaving it stagnant for so long.  
> Hope you enjoy the newest installment!

_“Some… where… over the rainbow..."_

_The refrain was a step up in octave, expertly sustained with just a hint of tinny vibrato. As Mettaton sang the words, he grasped the hem of his gown and gave it a dramatic toss, the gossamer fabric almost hovering in the air for a moment before swishing back into place around his ankles. This earned him a shower of applause and he couldn’t help but grin into the microphone, his heart swelling in its container as his confidence in himself and his musical ability_ _filled him with sweet, visceral joy._

_“...bluebirds fly…”_

_This song was important to him. He sang it to himself as a young ghost, when everything in life felt black-and-white. He used to liken the Surface to technicolor Oz, the Emerald City— a place where his lofty dreams could be fully realized. Singing the song now, as an_ X-Factor _finalist, felt like a tribute; like sending a message to his former self that dreams really do come true. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”_

_“...birds fly over the rainbow… why, oh why—”_

~~

“Can’t I get you _anything_ to eat, dear?”

Mettaton blinked the daydream away, his gaze snapping back into focus on Miss Lapine’s furry face. Papyrus’ earlier observation of the aging rabbit-monster being “rather persistent” was quite apt indeed. She’d asked Mettaton no less than three times if he wanted anything to eat, and he couldn’t tell if she was just anxious to please or if she had short term memory loss— both were equally likely.

“I’m really all right, darling, thank you.”

“Well, suit yourself, dear!”

Miss Lapine shuffled to her recliner across from Mettaton and Papyrus. The loveseat she had assigned them to was small, more so than most, and their bodies touching at the legs and hips was unavoidable. Papyrus’ arm was extended straight out like a weathervane on the backrest behind Mettaton’s shoulders (he’d raised his arm earlier to do something 'romantic' and panicked halfway through, unable to decide whether he dared to touch Mettaton’s hair or face or wherever else, and Mettaton finally had to grab the skeleton’s arm and yank it down to its current position before Miss Lapine could notice his struggle).

“How did you two meet?” she inquired cheerfully as she eased herself into the chair. It was at this moment that Mettaton and Papyrus realized simultaneously that they hadn’t planned their fake relationship out enough beforehand. “I want to know everything!”

“Um, dating app,” Mettaton declared on impulse. Burgerpants used those, and sometimes he’d foolishly leave his phone unattended around the apartment and Mettaton would take that opportunity to send weird messages to his matches, but that was the extent of the technophobic robot’s experience with them.

“We met up!” Papyrus added unhelpfully.

“Yeah, we sure did... didn’t we, honey?” Mettaton patted Papyrus’ leg bone beside him, a smile fit for a toothpaste ad plastered on his face. “We met up in Oxnard, and went on our first date—”

Mettaton faltered. Miss Lapine, an inhabitant of Oxnard, knew the town and probably all of its locations suitable for a date; and he, of course, did not. He needed Papyrus to take over, and quickly.

“Ah, um. Our first date... in—” He bumped Papyrus' ankle, silently begging for his input.

“AH… A-Ah-Iceland!”

Mettaton turned his head to look at Papyrus, his smile unwavering; blinked twice, and then turned back to the eager Miss Lapine. “In Iceland.”

“Wow!” The elderly woman clasped her hands together, starstruck like a teenage girl. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone like you, Mister Mettaton, of course— how was it over there?”

“It was very... icy."

“Oh, I can imagine… although I’m sure you two lovebirds were able to warm the place up a bit!” Miss Lapine gave them a playful wink, and Mettaton could sense a mortified Papyrus practically astral project through the floor.

“Oho, yes, um. Papyrus is… he’s quite the...” Mettaton didn’t want to scandalize the skeleton further, but he feared it was unavoidable at this point. “He’s quite the guy!”

“Oh, I’m sure he is, dear,” Miss Lapine giggled, hiding her mouth behind her paw. “What other sorts of things did you do?”

Mettaton wracked his neurocomputer for what he knew of Iceland. When the Underground was liberated, all monsters were required to take a human culture class with a geography unit— but that was many years ago. Papyrus would certainly know more about it, being an ambassador, but Mettaton was confident in his ability to improvise.

Iceland. A city, he knew that for sure, and he was almost certain it was somewhere in Sweden. He did know a few things about Sweden.

“My personal favorite was the ABBA Museum, of course. What a fantastic city—”

“In Sweden!” Papyrus interjected with a nervous laugh. Mettaton glanced over at him quizzically, confused as to where he’d gone wrong.

“Where we visited… after we were in the _country_ of Iceland...”

The conversation wore on for what felt like hours. Mettaton wove quite the intricate saga— opening plot holes here and there, but Papyrus swiftly corrected them when they arose. Having relaxed a little, Papyrus was able to contribute more of his own content as well, taking some of the onus off of Mettaton’s shoulders. Somehow, by the end of it all, Mettaton and Papyrus had toured Iceland, Sweden, Egypt and the Amazon rainforest on their first date, and Miss Lapine was utterly enthralled.

“What an adventurous couple!” she exclaimed once Mettaton had concluded the story with how they had barely escaped a vicious school of vampire piranhas. “It sounds like you two were meant to be! And how exciting for you, Papyrus! Dating your favorite celebrity— it’s a dream come true, isn’t it?”

Mettaton opened his mouth to respond, fully expecting Papyrus to be embarrassed into silence by the “meant to be” business— but Papyrus spoke up before he had a chance to do so.

“Getting to know the Mettaton behind the celebrity status has been the most rewarding part of it all for me, actually!” His voice was cheerful and light with only a touch of anxiety, and Mettaton could tell— somehow— that he was speaking the truth. “I’ve been a Mettaton-Brand fan for much of my life…”

He considered his words for a moment, and then continued to address Miss Lapine. “Mettaton’s TV show instilled in me a confidence that I'm unsure I would've been able to find for myself. The importance of self-love in spite of obstacles is an invaluable lesson, especially for those… nyeh. Especially for those... who may have been made to feel worthless.”

He turned to Mettaton and smiled, his luminescent pupils twinkling like fairy lights. “I fear there’s not much I can do to repay you for that, but I will certainly… continue… to try my best.”

Mettaton was so taken aback, he missed whatever Miss Lapine said in reply. Soul warm with joy, Mettaton took Papyrus’ hand and gave it a squeeze, debating whether the shy skeleton would appreciate or be overwhelmed by a kiss. On the cheekbone. For show, of course.

Mettaton’s phone rang suddenly in his handbag, startling him out of his thoughts. Upon fishing it out, he confirmed it was Burgerpants calling. His pleasant mood soured considerably, like a storm cloud hiding the sun. For some reason, the prospect of talking to Burgerpants gave him a sense of inexplicable dread, like some sort of new trouble was brewing on the horizon...

“Forgive me,” Mettaton said, pushing away his apprehension as he rose from the couch, “but I think I have to take this.”

~~

The evening sky was just beginning to darken when Mettaton stepped out onto the deserted street. The air was chilly, ruffling Mettaton’s plasticky hair, activating his internal heaters.

“Okay, now I can talk… hello?”

“Hey. Okay, listen, there’s this guy who wants to buy our TV for two grand. I just wanted to check with you—”

“You’re selling the TV?!”

“I know, it sucks. I just… we don’t have any other choice, boss. These legal fees are fucking nuts.”

Mettaton felt a swell of consternation rise in his throat like his larynx was blistering. “H-how will I watch _Celebrity Big Brother_ without a TV?"

Burgerpants sighed into the phone, the heavy breath crackling over the line. “I need to get you a good lawyer, boss. Unless you wanna watch it in jail?”

“Just use my royalty payments, darling. I know we agreed to put that in savings, but—”

“I used that. All of it. There are no savings. The royalties are fuckin’... nickels and dimes, seriously. No one’s buying your music anymore.”

Mettaton fled into a daydream.

_~~_

_“Six figures from this EP, boss. Six fucking figures!”_

_Mettaton squealed with glee, the high-pitched sound swallowed by his own singing voice:_ One Hit Kill _blasting in the back of the limousine._

_“We're going to tour the whole Surface, darling! Everyone wants to see me! Everyone!”_

_Burgerpants rolled down the tinted window, leaning out as the limo sped down the highway. “Listen up, everybody!” he bellowed into the night sky, “Mettaton is number one on the charts!”_

~~

“Oh, come on, not this shit again. Stonewalling me isn’t going to change anything. Hello?”

Mettaton bristled, his jaw hardening as the annoyance from being ripped out of his solace festered and boiled in his core. “This is all your fault.”

“...What the _hell?"_

There was no stopping it now: Mettaton lost his temper. His rage detonated like a fission bomb, porcelain screeching in his mouth as he ground his teeth, and in a matter of seconds he was angry to the point of nausea, like his stomach was being squeezed, twisted, wrung by a merciless fist.   

“Is that why you wanted to send me away to the middle of nowhere? So you could waste all of my money on… on drugs?!” Mettaton felt his soul start to fibrillate in its container. “Huh? Is that what it is?! Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve stolen from me, _Burgerpants."_

Burgerpants was silent for a few seconds, which only made Mettaton angrier.

“Answer me!”

“You… need to get some serious help.”

“I don’t need shit.”

“I’ve been working my ass off for you all these years, and now you’re accusing me of stealing your non-existent revenue?”

 _Non-existent—_ “God, I fucking hate you.”

Burgerpants laughed bitterly, disbelievingly. “Nah, you know what? Get your own goddamn lawyer. I’m done. Go fuck yourself.”

“ _Fuck you, asshole."_

“Have fun in prison.”

Mettaton threw his phone down onto the street as hard as he could. It was obliterated upon contact, minuscule pieces scattering across the cement, rolling into the maw of the sewer drain.

He blinked, staring blankly at the wreckage as his rage de-escalated as fast as it had come. He and Burgerpants had fought before— in fact, they fought on a near constant— but that just then felt alarmingly abnormal. It hadn’t been their usual bickering; nor had it been even one of their full-blown fights, the kind where Burgerpants left the apartment for a while and they worked it out over a glass of wine upon his return. 

This was different.

But it was fine. It was all fine.

~~

The beach was cold and empty, bathed in twilight as the sun sank into the water; a sliver of burnt orange gradient on the horizon, effusing into a deep purple sky. Mettaton trudged through the sand with Papyrus, carrying his high heels, the sea wind buffeting his back and tugging at his clothes and hair as it tore past.

Mettaton had suggested they go this way, expressing his desire to watch the sunset, rather than taking the street back the few blocks to Papyrus’ house. In truth, he didn’t want to see the pieces of his cell phone in the street, because that would remind him of his troubles; of which there were none, Mettaton could reassure himself, as long as he wasn’t reminded of them. The whistling wind and the sounds of crashing waves roared in his ears and he couldn’t hear himself think. He liked it that way.

They walked down to the shore in silence, stopping when the sand became hard-packed and slightly damp. The foamy tide reached out for their feet, fell short a good many inches and crept back to regain its strength before trying again.

“It is rather picturesque, is it not?” Papyrus remarked as he gazed out over the endless expanse of water. Mettaton, to his left, made a noncommittal sound of agreement as he tried to force his mind to go fully blank.

He turned his head and looked down the length of the dusky beach, expecting to see uninterrupted seashore for miles. He was mildly surprised to find, instead, a shadow looming in the near distance; big and black, like a monstrous blemish that cropped up out of the low tide. Mettaton frowned and squinted. It appeared to be some sort of hill, but it was really impossible to tell in the low light.

“Papyrus, what’s that over there?”

“Oh…” Papyrus’ demeanor changed, considerably so, when he turned to look. “Oh, _dear..."_

“What? What is it?” But Papyrus had already set off down the beach, first jogging, and then running— and Mettaton had no choice but to just follow.

As they drew closer to the great shape, Mettaton realized it wasn’t a hill, or any sort of inanimate thing, after all. He could make out two fins the size of surfboards and a fat, forked tail; he could see then that it was a colossal sea creature. A whale, stretched out on the dark, wet sand, the weak tide breaking against its glossy flank.

“It beached itself,” Papyrus exclaimed, his voice shrill with urgency. “We— we need to call the police, um—”

“What does that mean, ‘it beached itself’?” Mettaton watched as Papyrus dug frantically through his pockets, feeling his own anxiety start to climb. “Papyrus, what the fuck does that mean?!”

“It brought itself too close to shore. It can’t survive out of water!”

A stab of panic struck Mettaton like a stake through the heart. _“It’s going to die?"_

He didn't hear Papyrus’ response. His troubled thoughts surged suddenly in his mind like a sneaker wave, muffling all other sounds around him, and in that moment his only priority was to save this whale from its imminent demise.

Mettaton dropped his shoes and ran around to the creature’s tail, taking the thick, blubbery skin in his hands just above where it forked into flukes and pulled as hard as he could. He was a robot, of course, and had tremendous strength; but the whale was easily the size of bus and as much as he pulled, it wouldn’t budge an inch.

Strips of seaweed clung to his ankles as frigid, black water swallowed his feet. Mettaton gritted his teeth, whimpering in agony as he felt the wires that fastened his telescoping metal arms to the joints in his shoulders stretch almost to the point of snapping. Still, he continued to pull, willing this enormous creature’s body weight to give. He couldn’t just stand there and let this beautiful thing waste away— he couldn’t just _allow_ everything he’d dreamed of, everything he’d created for himself, to die, to crumble and slip through his fingers like this… _he had to save it_ …

“Mettaton, please! You’re going to hurt yourself!” Mettaton was vaguely aware of Papyrus’ voice screaming for him to stop, but he ignored it and carried on pulling, and pulling, and pulling.

 _“Come on!"_ he roared, the salt in the freezing wind painfully abrading the silicone portion of his face. He dug his heels into the sand and, tipping his head back, he kept pulling. _“Please!”_

“Mettaton! _Mettaton!”_ Papyrus’ bony hands were suddenly on Mettaton’s wrists and, in a surprising display of strength, he wrested them from the whale’s tail. “Mettaton, it's no use!”

 _“I can’t just give up!”_ Mettaton cried, trying to push past Papyrus, but the skeleton gripped Mettaton’s arms and— clearly, with the help of some magic— was able to hold him in place, for Mettaton’s soul suddenly felt heavy, heavier than the whale, heavier than the situation at hand. Papyrus stared into Mettaton’s face, his left eyelight consumed by orange flame.

“Mettaton! Listen to me!"

“I have to save it,” Mettaton pleaded, his voice cracking, “I _have_ to save it… please let me—”

_“It's dead! The whale is dead!"_

Time froze, and the world abruptly came to an end.

For what seemed like a lifetime, Mettaton stared at the shadows on Papyrus’ moonlit face. His mind was uncomfortably empty, as sterile and barren as his cell in solitary confinement while he was awaiting bail. His shoulders ached from how he'd strained them, but it was nothing compared to the grief he felt rising in him, drowning his soul in its container...

Hit with a dire need to escape, Mettaton employed magic of his own and gave Papyrus an unjustifiably powerful electric shock. Papyrus yelped, jerking his hands away, and Mettaton took that window of opportunity to do what he did best— he turned and ran from the seashore, back towards the light that shone from the windows of the beachfront houses, his soul hammering so intensely that he could feel it hitting, bruising against the inner wall of his plexiglass stomach.

This time, though, he didn’t make it far. The crushing reality he’d tried so hard to forget finally caught up with him, bore down on his back and brought him to his knees in despair. 

For the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I've learned in life is that you can't start to fix things properly if you can't acknowledge that there's something wrong.  
> Luckily for Mettaton, I can assure you guys that it's all uphill from here!  
> See you next chapter.


	7. Analgesic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Analgesic": a drug that acts to relieves pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Sorry it took me so long to update! Hopefully a bit of a longer chapter will make it up to you!

 Mettaton overslept, dreaming of nothing. When he awoke, the clock on the nightstand informed him that it was well past six in the evening. He’d been charging for twenty or so hours and as a result felt uncomfortably twitchy from the excess electricity.

His brain took a few seconds to reboot, allowing him a brief, blissful moment where nothing was amiss. The memory of last night then returned to him, viscerally, and the excruciating pain slicing him down the middle felt like surgery without anesthesia. With it, a lead weight fell on his chest as he lay there in bed, bore down on him as if he’d drowned and sunk to deep sea— the pitch black and unexplored level of the ocean— crumpling his body like a tin can under many, many atmospheres of pressure.

Despite the pain and the incredible heaviness, he pushed himself upright and unplugged his charger at a snail’s pace, the momentum from each tiny action giving him just enough energy to perform the next one. Once he’d made it out of bed, he trudged to his open suitcase and withdrew a long-sleeved dress, because putting on two separate pieces of clothing was much too onerous a task for the time being. As he pulled it on, he realized to his annoyance that the worn stretchy fabric was bunching at his hip, but as he went to adjust it in the full-length mirror he found himself distracted by his face.

 _It’s you!_ His voice echoed through the cathedral of his empty head.

But could he really call himself Mettaton anymore?

Grief punched him in the gut as the thought occurred. The man staring back at him in a decade-old designer dress— face bare, hair achew, yesterday’s makeup— looked like some forlorn stranger, and it wasn’t even his unkempt appearance that made him unrecognizable. His heavy eyes were dull and lusterless, rendering what once held an abundance of starshine into dismal stellar remnants; black dwarfs.

Unable to bear his reflection, he turned from the mirror and set off down the hall. With the prospect of his best friend quite possibly lost after so many years, he was in desperate need of company. He could hear Papyrus playing the 70s/80s music channel on his television as usual and the sound quickened his step, reeled him in, promising to chase away his loneliness even if only for a little while. He recognized the melancholy guitar and haunting vocals as he neared the kitchenette— “Dream On,” by Aerosmith. A good choice, Mettaton thought to himself. The song harmonized nicely with his heavy heart.

 _Every time_ ,  _when I look in the mirror_

_All these lines on my face getting clearer_

_The past is gone_

_It went by, like dusk to dawn_

“Mettaton!”

Papyrus— sitting cross-legged on the carpet between the sofa and coffee table with his dictionary open in his lap— looked up upon Mettaton’s arrival, his expressive eye sockets wide with concern. Mettaton read the room, his normally adept perception slower than usual. Papyrus had a large wine bottle on the table in front of him with two glasses, one half full with sparkling pink liquid and the other empty. He hoped that this meant he was going to be offered a drink. The pencil and newspaper told him that Papyrus was working on the daily crossword, which was to be expected, and the skeleton’s casual clothing suggested—

“I called out of work today,” Papyrus continued, “I just… I… a-ah, are you… alright?”

Mettaton didn’t answer, staring into space. The skeleton shook his head vigorously, his hands wringing at a hundred miles an hour.

“Nyeh, of course you’re not alright. That’s apparent. _I mean,_ I’m sure your mental acuity is fine, exemplary even, I’m not questioning that whatsoever, I just can’t help but notice that you’re in what appears to be a great deal of emotional distress—”

Mettaton approached the table and sat down beside Papyrus on the rug. “Please finish your crossword.”

“Finish— right, nyeh, of course…” Papyrus went to pick up his pencil with a little too much verve and ended up flinging it across the table. Mettaton telescoped his arm and reached for it, brought it back, and set it in front of the agitated skeleton on the newspaper. They sat quietly for a while, Mettaton looking over at Papyrus’ progress with lukewarm curiosity while Papyrus stared at the little boxes of the puzzle, drumming the eraser end of his pencil on the tabletop.

“Erm… would you like a glass of wine?” Papyrus asked suddenly, sliding the empty glass towards Mettaton. Mettaton accepted with a nod, picking up the glass as soon as Papyrus had finished pouring, and clutched it between his palms like a cocoa mug.

“Alright. Nine-letter word, begins with an ‘a’… ‘what the bartender serves to lonely hearts’—”

“Alcohol,” Mettaton interjected, taking his first sip of wine. It was a rosé, Mettaton’s favorite, and its sticky sweetness combined with the sensation of bubbles tickling his silicone tongue managed to ever so slightly lift his spirits.

“Good guess!” Papyrus quipped encouragingly. “But that’s not enough letters.”

They sat in silence, listening to Steven Tyler sing. Mettaton lifted his gaze to the television to watch the music video— a live performance— but the sight of a rock legend on stage, cheered on by an enthralled audience… it was just too painful, and Mettaton quickly averted his eyes.

_I know, nobody knows_

_Where it comes and where it goes_

_I know it’s everybody’s sin_

_You gotta lose to know how to win_

“I’m sorry about the whale,” Papyrus blurted. “It was on the news this morning… there’s nothing we could have done, it had been dead for a long time—”

“It’s fine.”

Papyrus considered this answer for a few moments, his eyelights fixed on the page before him, and then spoke up again.

“Mettaton, I don’t want to intrude—”

“Then don’t,” Mettaton grumbled, but to the petulant robot’s mild surprise, Papyrus continued on anyway.

“—but I’m worried, and I can’t ignore…” Papyrus set his pencil down and leaned back against the seat of the couch. “Pretending someone is all right when you know they aren’t… it doesn’t serve them well.”

He raised his head and Mettaton was stunned by the emotion in his gaze. His eyelights were needle-pricks in the hollow sockets, dimmed by a mysterious yet profound remorse. The skeleton had shown sadness around Mettaton before, like while they had been boating a couple of weeks prior, but that had been the sort of thing Mettaton was accustomed to comforting his fans about— love, relationships, loneliness, wanting to belong. In this instance, Mettaton knew by Papyrus’ expression that whatever caused this went far beyond anything he could offer his canned celebrity advice for; the _Titanic’_ s iceberg of grief.  

Mettaton was at this moment struck by the notion that he’d perhaps been underestimating Papyrus this entire time, chiefly, the goofy skeleton’s depth of emotion and capacity to empathize with real suffering. He’d been so caught up in himself that he’d completely overlooked the possibility that he wasn’t the only one with abject sorrow hidden behind a smile.

How selfish he’d been!

Papyrus let out a curt exhale and downed the rest of his wine in a single tremendous gulp, his teeth clinking against the glass. “You don’t have to tell me anything private, of course,” he stipulated as he poured himself another, “but is there something I can do to make you feel better?”

Mettaton almost asked why he cared so much— not sarcastically, genuinely, because he could not understand why this skeleton would go so out of his way for… for whatever Mettaton was now, certainly not the rockstar Papyrus was a fan of— but he knew the answer to that question already, so he took a long, pensive sip of wine instead.

 _Because he loves you,_ he thought.

Well, of course Papyrus loved Mettaton. _Mettaton._ Not some bitter, aging facsimile plagiarizing the last remnants of his glittering career like a color photo printed out in grayscale.   

“I’m sorry,” Mettaton murmured, “I’m... I’m just not who you want me to be.”

Papyrus furrowed his browbone. “Who would I rather you be?”

“Mettaton.”

“I don’t follow.”

Mettaton sat for a moment, thinking, and then reached for a magazine on the far side of the coffee table— his _Rolling Stone_ feature, published many years ago. Papyrus kept a copy all this time, it seemed, which only made the point Mettaton intended to make even more apt.  

“Your idol, right?” He held up the magazine and tapped the cover. It was a glamorous close-up shot of his face with his head turned over his left pauldron as he gazed up into the camera, his visible eye lit up like the Milky Way and his smooth chrome vents glowing blue, purple, pink. Papyrus looked it over, nodding hesitantly as though he were nervous about where Mettaton was taking this.

“Well, he’s a star, honey, and I’m alone, bankrupt, going to prison…”

And just like that, Mettaton’s woes burst from him without warning, the confessions all spewing at once like blood from a severed artery. He told Papyrus about the fight with Burgerpants, his fear of the mental torture that surely awaited him in solitary confinement, the media’s relentless ridicule, how he hadn’t gotten a decent royalty payment in months and hadn’t put out a song in years. He told Papyrus his ever-heightening suspicion that he’d irreversibly fallen from glory and become a nobody, just like— (he stopped himself at this juncture).

He told Papyrus everything he hadn’t ever said out loud, had barely even allowed himself to think; and when he finally staunched his hemorrhaging misery, tears came to replace the flood of words.

Mettaton pointed again at the magazine cover, jabbing it vehemently with an accusing finger. “Does any of that sound like him? The type of shit he’d land himself in? No, darling, because I’m no one’s idol anymore, I’m just—”

He dropped the magazine and hid his face behind his hands. “I’m just a mean old bastard.”

_You know it’s true_

_All the things come back to you_

_Sing with me, sing for the year_

_Sing for the laughter, sing for the tear_

_Sing with me, if it’s just for today_

_Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away_

“But this is still you, though.”

Papyrus’ voice was gentle, and the kindness of his tone drew up Mettaton’s head in curiosity. Papyrus was clutching _Rolling Stone_ his hands, looking at the cover, and then he turned it around towards Mettaton. “Despite everything, it’s still you.”

_Dream on, dream on, dream on_

_Dream until your dream come true!_

_Dream on, dream on, dream on_

_Dream until your dream come true!_

Papyrus put down the magazine, averted his eyes— clearly unsure of how to behave while being stared at by Mettaton— and returned to the crossword, running his pointer phalanx down a list of synonyms for the word ‘alcohol’ in his dictionary.

“Oh! This works.”

Mettaton watched as Papyrus penciled in a new word. “Ana— what?”

“Analgesic,” Papyrus corrected. “‘What the bartender serves to lonely hearts’... a drug that acts to relieve pain.”

“Ooh,” said Mettaton, picking up his wine glass and taking another sip, “Let’s definitely make that the word of the day.”

~~

About an hour passed, positively flew by, and it was at this point that Mettaton realized his heavy chrome body was starting to feel like it was made of cotton. The room around him felt smudged, undefined, like he’d been plunged into an impressionist painting. Mettaton’s pain was suspended for the time being, simmering on the back burner, and the relief he felt was sweet beyond compare.

Papyrus had since managed to scrounge up more wine and both of them opted to just take alternating swigs directly from the bottle, the glasses ignored altogether. This was a source of great amusement for Mettaton, as Papyrus didn’t have lips and resorted to just messily pouring the wine between his parted teeth, adding progressively more and more stains to his shirt until he finally yanked it up over his head and tossed it across the room.

“Aren’t you going to finish the puzzle, sweetheart?” Mettaton inquired as casually as he could manage, unable to keep a grin off of his face as uncontrollable giggles bubbled in his chest. He knew from experience that wine in particular was very reliable mood-altering tonic for him, making the most mundane things seem absolutely hilarious.

“Heavens, no!” Papyrus set the now empty bottle down carefully on the coffee table and, within seconds of doing so, elbowed it over by accident. “My skull’s full of… bees.”

Mettaton snorted and slapped his hand over his mouth, strangled snickering escaping between his metal fingers. Over the past half hour or so, Papyrus’ speaking volume had steadily increased to the point where he was now borderline shouting, and it was so very out of character for the normally timid skeleton that Mettaton couldn’t help but find this terribly funny.  

“God, I am…” Mettaton considered the verdict for a few seconds before declaring it; a pause suited for a drumroll. “A bit drunk.”

“Never fear,” Papyrus declared, unduly triumphant, “for the Great Papyrus never gets drunk... and will gladly assist you in— during your trying… trying times.”

He leapt to his feet to prove his point, wobbled a little bit, and then promptly sat himself down on the couch. “Kindly disregard my… my instability,that, by happenstance, is a telltale sign of drunkenness!”

Mettaton laughed and the sound was remarkably bright, his earlier distress unable to cut through the fog of intoxication. He felt energized, rejuvenated, _alive…_

A familiar piano arpeggio immediately caught Mettaton’s attention, drawing his focus to the television. To his delight, he was met by Gloria Gaynor’s dark eyes, featured in a music video that he was very familiar with: “I Will Survive”, a disco classic.

_At first I was afraid, I was petrified_

_Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side_

“Oh Christ, I love this song—” There was nothing in the world that could stop Mettaton from dancing along; and so he leapt to his feet and commenced doing exactly that, albeit a bit clumsily. He could feel Papyrus’ eyes on him, hear him laugh raucously and clap along, and he relished the joy of being watched and cheered for, even if he was just twirling around in front of the television like a stoned teenager at a music festival.

_But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong_

_and I grew strong, and I learned how to get along_

This song happened to be one of great importance to him. He’d stumbled across it many years ago while idly browsing an eighties playlist on YouTube, seeking solace from the despair his first lover's betrayal caused him. It had felt like Gloria was singing directly to him through the screen— the lyrics were uncannily apt, with Simon’s imploring Mettaton’s forgiveness for keeping his family a secret, for giving the impression that they could actually ever be together in the way the young star had so naively imagined...

_And so you’re back, from outer space_

_I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face_

...his insistence that Mettaton be more prudent; because he was, after all, Mettaton’s producer, and it would be unwise to squander that away despite the serious conflict of interest…

_I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key_

_If I’d had known for just one second you’d be back to bother me!_

...his pleading to spend just one more night with him, just one more kiss...

_Go on, now go! Walk out the door!_

_Just turn around now, ‘cuz you’re not welcome anymore!_

_Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?_

Needless to say, Mettaton spurned him a second, and final, time. Despite all of the pain he’d been put through, however, Mettaton was still so in love and rejecting Simon broke his heart all over again. He spent the next few despondent days wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake sending his lover away; but Gloria spoke to him back then, and, strangely enough, at that very moment in Papyrus’ living room...

She was doing it again. Speaking to him. Somehow.

Mettaton gave up on love after Simon, pouring everything he had into himself, his fans, his art, and his performances, so it seemed odd that “I Will Survive” — a ballad about life after lost love— was appealing to him again after so many years in a completely unrelated situation.

But was it really so unrelated after all?

_Did you think I’d crumble? Did you think I’d lay down and die?_

_Oh no, not I!_

_I will survive!_

Of course he would.

_Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive_

_I’ve got all my life to live, and I’ve got all my love to give_

_and I’ll survive! I will survive!_

“HEY, HEY!”

Papyrus shouting the lyrics completely out of tune from the couch as he clapped to the beat was awfully endearing, and soon Mettaton’s singing voice morphed into yelling along with the drunk skeleton. The eight o’clock sunset streamed through the bay window and lit the living room on fire, casting brilliant oranges and purples and reds across Papyrus’s bleached bones and everything else remotely reflective, making Mettaton feel like he was dancing under colorful lights at a disco. He imagined how dazzling the light probably looked kissing his chrome cheeks, his metallic arms, and for the first time in a very long while Mettaton realized he was completely content with existing in the present moment, just dancing drunk for Papyrus in his homely bungalow. There was no trace of his compulsion to retreat to old memories, no urge to use the distraction of daydreams as a desperate measure to hide his misery from the rest of the world.

_It took all the strength I had not to fall apart_

_Kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart_

At least for now— granted, while very much under the influence— Mettaton forgot his suffering, and he was happy with himself just the way he was.

_And I spent oh-so-many nights just feeling sorry for myself_

_I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high_

Eyes closed and mouth curved in a serene smile, Mettaton allowed the music and the wine to guide his fluid movements. As he spun in circles on the carpet, he could feel his dress billow around him and he knew full well that Papyrus was most definitely getting generous glimpses of the lacy white panties he had on underneath. It wasn’t embarrassing; in fact, quite the opposite, because Mettaton felt beautiful and alluring as himself, in the moment, not vicariously through remembering crowds screaming their love for him and fans passing out from a wink or a blown kiss in their direction. He felt himself grow more and more bold under the spotlight of Papyrus’ gaze until he was swaying his hips seductively to the infectious beat, sliding his hands through his hair and down the length of his body, his fingers catching the hem of his skirt and dragging it up well past his hips before relinquishing it to gravity. With every move, he felt like he was sloughing off of the obsessive love he had for his former self, shedding more of those nagging insecurities that clung to his back and whispered in his ear about how he _used_ to be adored, _used_ to be lusted after, _used_ to be looked up to and celebrated for his many talents. Why the hell couldn’t he be those things now?

_And you see me, somebody new_

_I’m not that chained up little person still in love with you_

_And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free_

Mettaton stopped dancing for a moment to gauge Papyrus’ reaction, expecting with a bit of mischievous anticipation to find the skeleton flustered and blushing. He met Papyrus’ eyes, staring at the negative space in his sockets that, by some property of magic, appeared to have no end to them; blackest black, extending infinitely through his skull like the farthest reaches of the universe...

It was the wine’s influence, Mettaton told himself— but he was caught off guard in that moment, taken aback by the skeleton’s unique, almost Stygian beauty. He was sat all the way forward on the sofa, shirtless in the twilight, and his ribs shone like patent leather, contrasting the shadows on his face that every sharp contour and curve cast down the ivory bone. His head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, mouth set in its resting smile, and his glittering eyelights carried a warmth that could very well rival the sun.  

“God _damn..._ I wish you could see yourself right now,” Papyrus slurred blearily. “You… are _so_ perfect.”

_But now I’m saving all my loving for someone who’s loving me..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use alcohol to solve your problems... but sometimes you just gotta catch a break from it all with your hot gay skeleton friend, hehe.  
> See you next chapter!  
> ["Dream On"— Aerosmith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54BCLYNkFKg)  
> ["I Will Survive"— Gloria Gaynor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARt9HV9T0w8)


	8. Mnemonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mnemonic": assisting or intending to assist the memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!! Sorry it took so long, I was on vacation for a while in June.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Mettaton had no idea where he was. 

He groaned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a few seconds as a sudden rising sickness waggled a scolding finger at him, telling him off for the amount of alcohol he’d consumed the night before. His soul, hungover and sick, gifted him a screaming headache by sending angry magic signals to his computerized brain, relentlessly pummeling the synapses like a hammer rattling around in his metal skull. 

Swallowing the knot of nausea that sat in his throat, he opened his eyes a fraction, trying to make a little sense of things. The poster of himself on the ceiling directly above jogged his memory, and the clock on the nightstand further solidified his surroundings. Papyrus’ house. Vacant, surely, because the clock read barely past noon and Papyrus normally had work until two.

Mettaton extended his field of awareness past the immediate circumference of the bed and spied his black dress, puddled on the floor like spilled ink. For whatever reason, the dress triggered something in his brain and placed another piece of his memory back into the confusing jigsaw of last night:

He remembered being drunk and exhausted while Papyrus helped him into bed and assisted him with his dress. Mettaton had been struggling to pull it up and over his head. Beyond that, he had only fragments of recollection; fuzzy memories, meaningless in isolation, scattered about like broken glass… 

Mettaton shook his head vigorously, sweeping away the dustbunnies of his thoughts, and automatically reached for his cell phone on the nightstand. This time, it was a lack of something that gave him a new memory— _that’s_ right, the phone isn’t on the table, it’s still lying in pieces on the street where he’d left it alongside what had once been his closest friendship. 

Mettaton closed his eyes again. He felt awful. Perhaps it was the alcohol— but it mostly wasn’t.

~~

“Hi darling, it’s me—”

Dial tone.

Mettaton scowled, his frustration starting to get the better of him as he stuffed quarters with undeserved aggression into the payphone. He’d just wanted to take a walk, get some fresh air to clear the last of his hangover, but as he meandered aimlessly around the harbor he came across a payphone. His enormous guilt ate at him too much to just ignore it. 

Now he _needed_ to get Burgerpants on the line; but Burgerpants didn’t seem very keen on speaking to him. Understandably so.

The phone rang once on the other side. _Please pick up._ Twice. _Please._

He heard the telltale sound of Burgerpants lifting the phone off the hook for a moment, then replacing it. Dial tone.

Mettaton swore and, caught in a flurry of desperation and rage, slammed the receiver against the box, over and over again until the metal dented and caved on itself. He wasn’t angry with Burgerpants for purposefully ignoring him, as annoying as that was. He was angry with himself for letting this happen— no, for _making this happen._ It definitely wasn’t passive.

He stared at the dented metal until his eyes lost focus, his glass eyes burning with the beginnings of tears. He didn’t blink them away like he used to do. His emotional dam was broken that night with the beached whale, so now the idea of holding back again seemed exhausting instead of ideal. 

The phone box sparked suddenly, startling him out of self-pity. He’d really done a number on it— it was clearly unusable now and probably unfixable, not that that was shocking by any means. Mettaton had handled problems like this indiscriminately the last few years. Slanderous tabloids? Tear them to pieces. Bank overdraw emails? Destroy the laptop. Arguments through telephones? Smash the telephones. Insolent nightclub bouncers? Get arrested on assault charges.

_Why do I always do that?_

If it hurt him, he broke it. This evidently included friendships. So he had to try and fix what he’d broken through a payphone because he broke his cell, but Burgerpants wouldn’t fucking pick up so he broke the payphone, too. 

Mettaton left the receiver off the hook, dangling down forlornly on its cord, and set off back toward Papyrus’ house. The afternoon was particularly temperate and there were a few people here and there along the marina enjoying the sunshine. A human jogger headed in the opposite direction smiled and gave Mettaton a friendly wave as they passed each other on the sidewalk.

 _Maybe Burgerpants was right,_ Mettaton thought as he grinned his signature grin, waggling his fingers in greeting as the jogger ran past. _Maybe I do need help._

_~~_

Upon his return, Mettaton found Papyrus home from work, still in his business casual, on the couch in the living room. He had his dictionary in his lap, using it as a flat surface for the daily crossword. Papyrus doing his crossword was a homey sight now, something Mettaton had of late grown comfortably accustomed to seeing. 

“Greetings, Mettaton!” Papyrus quipped. Mettaton noticed he was a little overly cheerful, and that his speech was also a bit stilted— both attributes he knew were indications of Papyrus’ anxiety— but before he could question it, Papyrus raised his head with a smile and his face triggered something in Mettaton’s mind. The memory hit him like a baseball bat cracking against his skull, and his eyes widened in surprise at the punch of it returning to him so suddenly: 

Woken up in the early hours of the morning by a low power alert, Mettaton had reached for his charger and discovered Papyrus asleep on his chest, bony arms wrapped around his neck. 

He hadn’t slept off all of the drink yet, so finding Papyrus there wasn’t awkward— in fact, Mettaton could recall feeling pleased about the predicament, and was reluctant to dislodge him despite the now urgent need for a charge. Despite his build, Papyrus was surprisingly cuddly. His body was quite warm, possibly due to the ligaments of magic connecting every bone, and while Mettaton had seen that before in the skeleton’s hands and wrists, he’d never truly appreciated the anatomical brilliance of the phenomenon until he saw it glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. 

He’d reluctantly shaken Papyrus awake and watched as the shirtless and half-drunk skeleton lifted himself, baring his ribcage to Mettaton up close. His soul, perched behind his sternum, was suspended in phosphorescent orange filaments— the tiniest of vessels, only noticeable because of the low light, extending in branches from the heart-shaped membrane up through his spine, along his ribs, connecting the soul to the body like a generator to a beautiful machine. Mettaton’s own soul, trapped in the interstitial fluid of his glass torso, radiated pink light with equal intensity as it gave life to his own artificial body. The two hardworking souls effused a soft blend of pastel colors between the robot and the skeleton; like sherbet, like oil paint, like sunset.  

How Mettaton could remember all this, and in such excruciating detail, was beyond him— but that wasn’t even all. 

Once Mettaton had secured his charger in his hip, he remembered Papyrus melting back into his chest, shifting a little to get comfortable, his legs tangling with Mettaton’s beneath the duvet. As Mettaton began drifting back to sleep he wrapped his arms around Papyrus, pulling him close, relishing his organic warmth—

He blinked. If he wasn’t recalling it clear as day in his own mind, he would have surely deemed it outrageous. Was all that really possible? Could he have  _slept with Papyrus?_

Both monsters were older, lonely, gay, and had been outrageously wine-drunk that night; plus, Mettaton liked Papyrus well enough. Even in the relatively short time they’d known each other, Mettaton grew to truly see Papyrus as a friend, rather than just a fan. Hell, they’d even strutted around holding hands in front of that old lady down the street, pretending to be an item. Maybe the alcohol impaired their judgement more than they’d anticipated, and they just fell into bed together at the end of last night and took the whole quote-on-quote-boyfriends thing to the next level? 

It was an implausible scenario, yes, but not completely outside the realm of possibility. Mettaton led a hedonistic, groupie-filled sex/drugs/rock n’roll lifestyle in his younger years, so he was no stranger to sexual escapades while under the influence. In fact, as recently as a year ago, he’d partaken in approximately half a minute of weird tongue-kissing with Burgerpants over a bottle of Absolut— an unfortunate occurrence that both swore to never acknowledge or repeat. 

But this was Papyrus. _Papyrus._

 _Did I hook up with_ _Papyrus?_

Papyrus stared at Mettaton, his face showing the universal confusion of having just asked someone a simple question and getting radio silence in response. Mettaton blinked and smiled, promptly returning to earth.

“Sorry, darling, did you say something?”

“Oh, I just asked if you went for a walk! Nothing of terrible importance.” 

Mettaton replied with some contrived nonsense about wanting to stretch his legs, how nice the harbor was this time of day, et cetera, whatever— very carefully skirting his destruction of the payphone. Papyrus looked away and returned to the crossword halfway through the monologue, which was something he did often while being spoken to. Mettaton had learned this didn’t indicate a loss of interest, but rather what he guessed was discomfort with sustained eye contact. 

“By the way, darling…” Mettaton smoothed a palm over his hair, attempting to hide the crippling awkwardness he felt behind a casual crooked smile. “Do you… remember much from yesterday?”

Papyrus focused even more intently on the crossword, his pencil digging in so hard each stroke of the graphite on the newspaper was audible. “Nyeh, not in particu— not at all, actually, an unfortunate consequence of alcohol, isn’t it, complete and utter amnesia, I think ‘blackout’ is what the kids call it these days, perhaps we overdid it, you and I…” 

Mettaton sighed, resigned to the fact that Papyrus would fake ignorance about this to the end of time, and decided to just bite the bullet and rip off the proverbial bandage. 

“We slept together last night, didn’t we?” 

Papyrus stiffened suddenly, like a mouse had just scampered up his back. 

“I was just too drunk to move! I swear, that’s all it was!” He took a deep breath, and Mettaton could see him mentally retracing his steps, organizing his explanation. “Last thing I remember, you asked for your charger and I leaned over you to fetch it. I… I must have fallen asleep.”

Papyrus looked up at Mettaton, eye sockets wide, glowing pupils dilated with worry. “I hope you’re not angry. I would never, _ever_ do anything… _ungentleskeletonly—”_

“I know, darling,” Mettaton assured as he joined Papyrus on the couch. It made sense— never before had he completely forgotten a sexual encounter, even while under the influence of heavier drugs. But, more importantly: “I trust you.”

And he really did. Throughout his life, he’d met many a fake friend. Liars and social climbers were a dime-a-dozen in Hollywood. Papyrus was the antithesis of that sort of character, however, and that was perhaps what Mettaton liked most about him. He was just so _genuine,_ and everything he did seemed to be for the betterment of someone else… 

“Ah! I nearly forgot! I got you a present, Mettaton.” 

Mettaton could sense Papyrus’ embarrassment about the whole bed-sharing ordeal, so he took the sudden change of subject in stride. 

“For me?” He feigned a cute little gasp, covering his mouth with spread fingers— a classic MTT-Brand facial expression that he was sure Papyrus would appreciate. “Mm, I love presents.”

Papyrus fished around in his leather satchel and pulled out a small brown paper bag, which he then thrust into Mettaton’s lap. 

“It’s a mnemonic device!” he explained, before Mettaton even had a chance to open the bag and find out for himself. “Well, technically, it’s jewelry, but I figured it could serve as a mnemonic, which was my word of the day today, just a side note, that’s why it occurred to me to buy it for you—”  

“It’s a what?” Mettaton interrupted as he unrolled the top portion of the unassuming bag and peered inside. 

“A mnemonic— a thing that helps one remember something. An object, a person, what have you: you see it and it triggers a memory.” 

Mettaton withdrew what appeared to be a child’s bracelet from the bag, fashioned from pink plastic beads. He stared blankly at it— Papyrus’ explanation just made him all the more puzzled. 

“I was thinking about the things you said yesterday, particularly how you’re afraid you don’t know what you are anymore. I figured a mnemonic like this could help you remember… here, I’ll show you!” 

Papyrus took the bracelet and, as he slid it on the robot’s wrist, Mettaton noticed for the first time that it had a tiny star-shaped charm dangling from it. 

“See, all you have to do is look here—” Papyrus nudged the pewter star with his index phalanx, “—and it’ll remind you that you’re a star. In case you forget again! That’s the beauty of the mnemonic.”

Mettaton couldn’t speak, so he didn’t try.

Instead, he took the skeleton’s hand, squeezed it; and then decided that wasn’t enough, it didn’t even begin to properly express his gratitude, so he did what he’d held himself back from doing the other day at the neighbor’s house. 

He kissed Papyrus, just on the cheekbone. As friends. But not for show. 

The skeleton held absolutely still, clutching Mettaton’s hand. Mettaton’s lips lingered as he breathed in Papyrus’ scent. It was a fresh sort of smell— honest, free of sticky colognes. It reminded Mettaton of clean laundry, and happiness, and soft cotton, and sea air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what would u do 😳 if i slept in bed w u 😳 and then kissed u 😳 and we both friends 😳  
> Lol, anyway. Next chapter, we get to find a little more about Papyrus, as up until now has been very Mettaton-centric.  
> Also, thank you Angel for the bracelet idea!! It ended up kinda becoming the crux of this chapter, so it was a very helpful suggestion.


End file.
